


Interlude 1: Awakening

by MarieAnne_Cormier



Series: Such Sweet Surrender [2]
Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Arthas, Arthas Was A Bastard, Don't ask me how I have no clue, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of past Jaina/Arthas, My God What Have I Become?, Past Abuse, Past People Puppets, Past Torture, Pre-Relationship, Suggestive language, The Fall of Silvermoon, This ended up being long af again, angst and pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-02-28 21:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18764689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieAnne_Cormier/pseuds/MarieAnne_Cormier
Summary: “You really did it.” Jaina was surprised at how different her voice sounded now that it possessed an echo similar to the one that tinged Sylvanas’ when the Banshee spoke. Was her voice a little deeper and raspier, or did she simply not remember correctly? “I didn’t think you would.”“I was not going to.” Sylvanas replied, her face still pensive as her eyes carefully catalogued every movement and action the mage took. “Belore help me, I was not going to. This is going to be incredibly troublesome for me and bring about an avalanche of problems I do not need right to my door, but it is what it is.”Jaina awakens to her new unlife as a Forsaken, and begins to realize just what all of that entails.





	1. Jaina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raffinit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/gifts).



> Welp, here we are again. This is an interlude that, hopefully, shows some insight into what Jaina's state of mind was when she was first made a Forsaken, and why certain things in Choices happened the way they did. Do keep in mind that this has been written purely from Jaina's point of view and she is hardly omniscient, so there are things that she absolutely interprets wrong or does not quite understand properly. I am also currently abroad, so my writing has slowed down significantly and will likely continue to be so for a while. Sorry about that.
> 
> To Raff, who continues to hear me yell at all hours of the day and who continues to be wonderful and endlessly patient with all of my complete nonsense.

Soft.

That was the first thing that came to mind as she slowly made her way back to consciousness. It wasn’t like having been asleep, not really. It was almost as if she had been drowning, darkness pulling at her and trying to drag her down, and she had suddenly found a burst of strength that allowed her to kick her way back to the surface. The thought made her inhale deeply to verify that she wasn’t underwater, but although her lungs filled with air and both her stomach and chest expanded with the action, she found no relief in it. In fact, she didn’t _need_ to breathe; she was quite comfortable without it and felt no need to take in air as she had before. 

Her eyes snapped open as her body flinched in its entirety, and she sat up on what she could now see was a bed. A spacious and very comfortable bed from the feel of it.

Twin burning points of red caught her attention before she could gather more about her surroundings. Instinctively, and before she could even realize she was doing it, an ice lance had formed in her hands and she was throwing it in their direction with brutal precision.

It shattered ineffectually against the wall, and from the shadows where the burning red had been boring into her emerged Sylvanas Windrunner, her arms crossed and a pensive look on her face. 

“ _Bal’a dash,_ Lady Proudmoore. I see that your magic is as strong as ever.” Sylvanas eyed the remains of the ice lance and the way it had pierced the stone of the wall by a good three inches. “Had I not been anticipating such a thing, I might be pulling that out of my body as we speak.”

Jaina couldn’t speak for a moment. Her last memory was being in agonizing pain, the call of the Tides much too strong to ignore, the feeling of trying to fight against a current that was pulling at her…and then she was on a ship, sailing on the open ocean under clear blue skies and a strong summer sun. Sailing like she had as a girl atop her father’s shoulders, enjoying the sound of the waves, the fresh scent of the sea breeze and how it caressed her skin, feeling free like she hadn’t felt in…far longer than she cared to remember. 

A twinge of something had been nagging at her but it was faint, and she couldn’t recall what was causing the itch in the back of her skull to flare up, choosing to try and ignore it in favour of what lay ahead. She was sailing to a distant shore that she somehow knew was where _home_ awaited, and there was an eagerness in her that was very at odds with the part of her that felt empty at the thought.

Then, it was as though a rope had been thrown around her midsection and pulled _hard,_ dragging her off the ship and throwing her into the ocean’s embrace. It hadn’t been uncomfortable at first, and the coolness of the water was actually a relief on her slightly-overheated skin, but as she floated there for what felt like a small eternity, weightless and staring up at the sky through the blurriness, she began to feel heavy and as though she _needed_ to get back to the surface. Something weighed in her chest, and the itching at the back of her skull had become more insistent, as though she she’d forgotten something terribly important. 

All of a sudden, warmth had suffused her body and she’d found an unexpected burst of strength that had allowed her to break through and back to the surface.

And now…here she was, on a soft bed, without the need to breathe, and with Sylvanas looking at her as though she were waiting for something. A reaction, perhaps. There was only one explanation possible for this.

“You really did it.” Jaina was surprised at how different her voice sounded now that it possessed an echo similar to the one that tinged Sylvanas’ when the Banshee spoke. Was her voice a little deeper and raspier, or did she simply not remember correctly? “I didn’t think you would.”

“I was not going to,” Sylvanas replied, her face still pensive as her eyes carefully catalogued every movement and action the mage took. “Belore help me, I was not going to. This is going to be incredibly troublesome for me and bring about an avalanche of problems I do not need right to my door, but it is what it is.”

Even though she was aware that this was true, a part of Jaina was still annoyed by that response, and she couldn’t help giving a biting comment in return. “If it’s going to be oh so troublesome, why did you bother?”

If she was offended by the tone, the Warchief gave no indication of it. “Because you were right when you asked me to do it. You may just be able to tilt the balance enough in our favour that we’ll be able to strike a decisive blow against Azshara.” Her eyes blazed brightly in the darkness of the room as they bore into Jaina’s. “We will need your strength for the coming assault. This will have great repercussions that will bring plenty of unwanted headaches for me, but it is undeniable that we stand a better chance with you here.”

The reasoning was sound, and it had been what Jaina had been banking on when she’d asked Sylvanas to Raise her in the first place, but something about the answer only served to irritate her further. 

“Right.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, finding that the action did nothing to soothe her nerves. Wonderful. “Where am I?” 

“Temporary chambers,” Sylvanas said, pushing away from the wall and making her way across the room to the farthest corner from the bed. “I hadn’t anticipated hosting the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras when I attended the ceasefire, so yours are not ready yet.”

Jaina was about to ask something else, when the Warchief returned and placed a very tall, gilded mirror in front of the bed. Words fled her as she stared at her new self.

She supposed she should have expected the greenish tint to her skin since she had seen Forsaken before, but it was still a surprise. She got up and walked toward the mirror to get a closer look, examining herself carefully and noting that blue seemed to be a dominant shade in her now. The colour tinged her hands, darkening and turning a deep purple as it travelled toward her fingers. Her hair was still the same stark white it had been since Theramore, but the ends were now laced with arcane blue, as if the frost that had come so naturally to her in life had clung on and tinted it. She bit back a sob as she saw that the last golden strands, what had remained of who she’d been before…before _everything,_ was gone. Instead, that section of her hair had turned a bright _pink._

Continuing her examination, she was startled by her eyes. They glowed now, arcane blue as well, just like the High Elves’ eyes did. Her gaze lingered on the scars that being Raised had not erased from her body. She noted the circular marks that had formed when the champion’s arrows had pierced her shoulder, lightning marks there on her right side where a shaman’s spell had managed to break through her ice barrier, claw marks on her abdomen from a Worgen’s slash, and countless other little reminders of the battles she’d participated in during her life. 

She was both surprised and grateful to see that other than that, her body was basically intact and in excellent condition. Admittedly, she hadn’t exactly had much time to think about what it would be like once she’d be a Forsaken, but the ones she was most familiar with, Sylvanas notwithstanding, were more…decayed. Jaina was just vain enough to be happy that she’d kept her form.

Still, this new image of her…this strange reflection in the mirror was who she was now. Her eyes traced her own face again, same shape as before but wrong colouring. Her eyes were still blue but now they glowed with their own luminescence like they’d only done so when she’d used her powers before. Her hands still had long, elegant fingers and were still strong, but her nails had become claw-like and _were purple_. 

She could feel the arcane in her veins, pulsing, thrumming, coursing through her like blood, across her entire system. Her body was the same _but not._

This…it didn’t exactly feel like her, yet it did, and the way she looked and felt was so bizarre and disconcerting, so close to what she’d been but not quite, that the dissonance threatened to drive her mad, and she began getting _angry._

She was truly a Forsaken now, but it hadn’t quite sunk in until this moment where she was looking intently at this creature that she had _become,_ trying to make sense of her new self, to begin understanding what it was she was now.

Jaina gritted her teeth and forced back a growl, her right hand curling into a fist as her left’s nails raked the mirror’s surface and made a horrible squeaking sound.

_What **am I** now? What did I accept to become when I asked her for this?_

It was too much, too soon, and she could feel the irritation rising within her, drowning out the confusion and discomfort she felt at her reflection in the mirror. Anger, familiar as it had become since Theramore, was _not_ a good thing to default to for Jaina Proudmoore, however. Things tended to be vaporized when she let her anger loose, and she wanted to believe that she was better than that.

She tried to think of something else and fixated on the first thing that her crossed her mind. “What are these clothes?”

She was not wearing the battle robes she usually donned, the ones that she had been wearing when the Naga had begun their assault and that she’d died in. Instead, she was clothed in a short top that didn’t cover her midriff and long, white tattered skirts with a blue overskirt laid on top, cinched with a metal skull that had chains hanging from it. While at least it wasn’t Horde red, she was still not exactly enthused with her new outfit.

“I thought you would not appreciate having the reminders of the battle that took your life so readily on display, so my Val’kyr cleansed you and swapped your robes before Raising you,” Sylvanas answered from the same spot she had been standing on since having dragged the mirror in front of Jaina. “As it was an emergency and I could not ask your opinion on this, I chose what seemed best in the moment.”

“How very thoughtful of you,” Jaina bit out angrily, much more so than she’d intended. 

It _was_ a thoughtful gesture, but her attempt at a distraction had been futile and the ire within her had only continued to grow, so she was unable to really appreciate what Sylvanas had done for her. Anger buzzed in her veins and crawled under her skin like a swarm of angry bees, prickling and incensing her even further. She tried to contain it, to calm down, but it was impossible. The fury within her was only mounting further, and she couldn’t find it in herself to tamp down on it. 

_Not good, definitely not good. Get a hold of yourself, Proudmoore!_

Jaina tried breathing in slowly, but the gesture was useless since she didn’t need to breathe, and it brought her no relief to do so. In fact, that trying to do so had ended up being a pointless action only served to make her even _angrier_. She clenched her teeth hard to try and force some of the irritation back, so much that she could swear she heard them crack, but it was no use. It was as though she’d been possessed wholly and fully by the rage.

It was a losing battle trying to fight against it. There was no distracting her mind from it and she couldn’t calm herself. She could feel her eyes blaze even brighter as she bared her teeth in a snarl, her magic’s gentle, internal thrumming become a soft, _external_ humming as it made its presence known by leaking from her body in arcs of barely-restrained power. It writhed like a living thing, lashing out in lines of electricity that surrounded her body and crackled dangerously along her limbs.

Her power welled up, the humming becoming more and more intense before it was as though a _click_ went off in her mind.

 _Oh, no._ Jaina just barely had time to recognize what was going to happen before all hell broke loose. 

Raw mana exploded from her body, the magic within her far too strong to control and forcing its way out of her. Her scream of pain was lost in the howl of the blizzard that suddenly raged in the room. Large, frozen shards fell all around her, destroying everything in their path and making the very stone shake as they pierced it and became embedded in it. 

The four-poster bed was made into a pincushion by the ice spikes, the desk exploded from being impaled, and the mirror shattered into a million tiny pieces as it was assaulted. The wardrobe in the corner barely fared better, and everything was covered in ice within only a few short moments, the very walls groaning as frost crept up along them and began making them crack.

In the middle of it all, Jaina sank to her knees as she struggled to bring her rebellious magic under control to no avail. The maelstrom within her had clawed its way out and it was determined to stay that way, blanketing her world in ice. She tried her best to reel it back, to call her power and bring it to heel, but it was useless. It wouldn’t listen to her, much too strong and unbridled, unchained and uncontrolled and destructive to everything in her vicinity in this state. Mana poured from her like a torrent, fuel to the icy fire that burned her terribly as it slashed at the inside of her veins in its wake.

_It hurts._

That was the only thought that Jaina was capable of forming then and there, the excruciating pain in her body taking over everything and making her panic, her vision whiting out and a persistent ringing taking over her hearing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an outburst like this, if ever. Magic had been her constant companion since she’d been born and it had always listened to her when she’d tried to give it form, when she’d directed it and given tangible expression to the power that lived within her much like an artist would with a paintbrush and canvas. 

Now, it writhed and growled like a wild, unruly thing, refusing to be tamed and roaring out in defiance, the elemental fury within her intent on obliterating everything in its path…and taking Jaina with her.

Magic was not meant to be used like this. Forcefully pushing oneself to channel excessive amounts of it would result in backlash that would hurt the caster in turn until they stopped or died. It had happened during the Naga assault when she’d obliterated Ozumat, and it was one of the reasons why it would have been too late to try to save her even if there had been healers on hand at the time to attempt it. 

If Jaina couldn’t find a way to rein herself in and stop the outpour of mana, she was going to die again.

Panic clawed at her mind much like the excess power clawed at her body and clouded her thoughts. She couldn’t stop it. Everything _hurt_ and she couldn’t calm down, she couldn’t force the magic back, _she couldn’t stop it,_ and it terrified her. Her chest felt like it was caving in on itself, as though she were missing the air she no longer needed to breathe, a constricting and coiling _something_ lodged firmly there.

 _Weak, weak, weak, **weak,**_ her mind screamed at her, whatever little part that wasn’t consumed by the agony in her system as the storm within her continued to rage inwards and outwards berating her mercilessly. _You chose this fate, became **this** and now you’ll die without having done anything, having failed again before having had the chance to fight. You know what’s out there. You know who waits in the deeps. They have hurt countless people, and everyone you’ve got left; they’re planning on killing every last one of your loved ones and will laugh while doing so, and this is how you’ll meet True Death? Having betrayed everyone first by being this, and then again by being too damn weak to control your own magic? Without standing up and fighting, which was the whole point?_

Her inner voice sounded suspiciously like Arthas, like her father, like everyone she had let down throughout her life as they condemned her again.

_Pathetic._

She shrieked in pain as the coiling sensation in her chest _intensified_ and the burning in her veins went from searing to white-hot in an instant. She was going to die here, without having accomplished anything and having wasted her second chance at fighting. She had failed _again,_ just like she always did, wallowing in her mistakes and regrets without having done anything substantial. 

She had always been too weak, too slow, done too little and done it too late to avert catastrophes, and she had never hated herself for it more than she did now.

Suddenly, she found herself encased in a strong vise that crushed her to something warm and wonderful. The ringing in her ears diminished somewhat, and, more importantly, the mana eruption began to calm. Slowly, so much so that it was barely noticeable to anyone on the outside, but that Jaina could _feel_ on a visceral level, her magic started to smooth out, the violent vortex of arcane rage and fury starting to even out into a gentle, flowing current again. 

As Jaina regained more of her senses, she was able to register that the vise around her was actually strong arms, and that the warm and wonderful ‘something’ was in fact Sylvanas Windrunner herself. The Warchief was holding her in a tight embrace, and her voice was low and soft as she sang in Thalassian into Jaina’s ear. 

Normally Jaina would have recoiled from the contact, but her body ached too much for that and she was unsure if she would even be able to move were she to try, so she remained ensconced in Sylvanas’ arms. A small part of her noted that the Banshee’s embrace was actually very comfortable, but she tamped down on that thought as soon as it had formed and buried it deep in her mind. Those were _not_ thoughts she should be having about the Horde’s Warchief, no matter how safe she may feel at the moment or how lovely and gentle the voice singing to her may be. 

She lost track of time as they knelt there, becoming so lost in her inner struggle that she almost missed the moment in which the blizzard fully stopped, and her magic was fully back under control again. She tried to disengage from Sylvanas then, but she found out just what a terrible idea it was to move at the moment when she attempted to pull back and a bolt of what could only be described as sheer _agony_ lanced through her, every single one of her muscles protesting the action as they flared up again.

Jaina yelped and fell back against Sylvanas, gritting her teeth as the pain began to subside. Clearly, the wild outburst was not something that her body was going to forgive easily, and she’d likely need some time to recover from this.

She did not have the presence of mind to wonder how it was that muscles that were no longer supposed to be subject to the same aches and pains as living flesh had hurt and burned as they had when she’d been alive. 

“I see that moving is not something you are able to do just yet, but I believe it would be best if we were to leave this place for now,” Sylvanas said softly, not having moved from where she’d been kneeling ever since she’d grabbed ahold of Jaina. “I will call for someone to clear up this mess afterwards, but for now you should probably lie down, Lady Proudmoore.” 

The Banshee seemed to pause for a second, tilting her head to the side slightly, before she asked, “Would you accept me carrying you out of here?”

“Yes,” Jaina mumbled in reply, too tired and weak to think about protesting.

Without another word, Sylvanas shifted the woman in her arms so she could hold her in a bridal carry and made her way out of the ruined chambers. Though everything was covered in ice shards, the path to the door was thankfully unbarred so it was merely a question of navigating the maze that the lances and spikes had formed, all while trying to not jostle Jaina too much. 

Jaina lost track of such minor things as the passage of time and what distance they had covered until she was laid on another bed, this one even softer and more comfortable than the one she’d awoken on and which held a faint scent of flowers and what she could only think to describe as cold steel. She was forced to bite back a moan from how _wonderful_ the sensation of the silky sheets was against her aching body, the woman wanting to burrow into the amazingly comfortable mattress and never get up again.

Sylvanas must have known her thoughts, because she got a small smirk as the Warchief gingerly moved away from the bed. Jaina was about to question why the careful movements, but her voice died in her throat as she took a good look at the state Sylvanas was in.

The Banshee Queen had been impaled by ice spikes on several places in her body. She had three of them embedded in her right arm, two had pierced her shoulder, a particularly long and vicious-looking _lance_ (it wasn’t right to call it a spike given its size) had gone through the Elf’s ribs, and those were just the ones that were immediately apparent to Jaina right then and there. She would bet that there were more on Sylvanas’ legs and the other parts of the woman that she was unable to see.

“Sylvanas…” Jaina croaked, her voice wavering and full of regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was…” She couldn’t even begin to voice what had happened, why she’d become so _angry_ all of a sudden, why she’d been unable to rein herself in, calm down, and keep her composure as she should have.

She had _volunteered for this,_ had actively _demanded_ that Sylvanas Raise her after her death so she would be able to make up for her weakness before, so that she would be able to fight again, so that she could continue protecting and serving her people. Her mistakes, her _failures_ were the very reason she had died to begin with, and she’d been dead-set on righting her wrongs, so what right did she have to get angry at the situation, at _Sylvanas_ when the Elf had only done as Jaina had asked? 

What had possessed her that she’d hurt the person that had granted her dying wish completely unprovoked? She had no excuse.

Shame burned deep in her chest, and she couldn’t find it in herself to continue speaking. What could she possibly say that would ever justify her loss of control?

“You were angry and your magic responded to that rather violently,” Sylvanas said simply, her tone having the same evenness it had held since Jaina had opened her eyes. “I expected as much. That doesn’t make the experience pleasant, but it was not an outburst that caught me by surprise.”

Jaina was completely floored by this revelation. “You _expected_ me to lose control of myself and hurt you?” Something in her stomach twisted painfully at that. She may not be human anymore, but she still felt distinctly sick at the thought.

“I expected you to get _angry_ at some point or another,” Sylvanas corrected her as she moved toward a basket and began to pull the spikes off her body, dropping them unceremoniously into the empty container. “All things considered it was the most plausible reaction you could have had, and so I fully anticipated that you would have an outburst sooner or later.” She shrugged unconcernedly, not even a hint of pain on her features as she yanked the lance from her ribs. “Your magic’s instability is also hardly surprising, and it made sense that any rage-fuelled flare-up of yours would include volatile magical storms.”

But Jaina hardly registered the words, too engrossed in the sight of the Banshee ripping off the solid spikes of ice that had speared her mercilessly. Black ichor seeped sluggishly from the wounds, though Jaina was even more sickened by the sight of blackened skin that was left behind, where the ice had frozen the area and hurt Sylvanas even more by burning the Elf’s very flesh when the frost had taken over and spread rather than just having impaled her. 

_Tides, what have I done?_

“I am so sorry,” Jaina whispered again, her eyes tracing the webs of frost-burned skin that must have been hurting like blazes, but that Sylvanas was ignoring as she carried on as if nothing was wrong. How high was her pain threshold that she had been able to carry Jaina while all of those shards had been tearing at her as she moved? And how strong was she? Jaina was not exactly heavy, but she had kept her muscle tone from when she’d been alive. Coupled with the wounds she’d unintentionally given the Warchief, she would have expected at least a grimace, but Sylvanas’ face was as smooth and impassive as ever as she grabbed a rag and began to calmly dab at the injuries, wiping the ichor away as she went. It was actually a little frightening.

_Can she even still feel things?_

“I suppose that is something you will need to find out on your own, will it not?” The reply to her unvoiced question came with a sharp, toothy smile and Jaina jumped in surprise. Was she capable of reading minds?

A dry chuckle interrupted her thoughts again. “Were that one of my abilities it would be both quite useful and amusing, but that is not the case. You are merely speaking aloud without realizing it, Lady Proudmoore.”

Well that was a better explanation than Sylvanas being a mind-reader. It had been a ridiculous thought, too, since if that had been the case it was doubtful the Alliance would have been able to hold their own against her in the war. 

Jaina decided to change the subject before she made a bigger fool of herself. “I have questions.”

Sylvanas nodded, discarding the bloodied rag and snatching up another to continue wiping away the ichor in her legs. “I imagine you do. You may ask whatever you like, and if I am capable of it, I will answer.”

Where to start? Jaina thought about it and decided to begin with the simplest of them all. It would hopefully give her time to organize her thoughts better.

“Where exactly am I? I know you said ‘temporary chambers’ before…before my outburst, but that still doesn’t give me an idea of where I am.” That should be a simple enough thing to begin with, shouldn’t it? “Is this Orgrimmar?”

Sylvanas finished cleaning up, dropped the rag in the basket, and then reclined against a wall, both of her ears flicking lightly as she settled against the cool stone. “It would have been much too difficult to transport you from Menethil Harbour to Orgrimmar safely without any of the Alliance noticing it, even with portals involved. It would have attracted too much attention, and that is the last thing we needed.” Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit as she spoke next. “This is Lordaeron. The reconstruction of the keep is finally starting to pick up after the little incident we had before.”

‘The little incident’ having been the Siege of Lordaeron, where Sylvanas had almost killed all of them with Blight. Jaina pursed her lips but decided to move past that and into her next question. Now was not the time to argue about such things. “How long ago was the Naga assault?” _How long have I been unconscious?_

“Twenty-eight hours since you fell on the shores of the harbour, and thirty-six since we were supposed to have those ceasefire talks. We are still trying to account for everyone that was killed during the battle, tallying the dead, preparing the funerals…” 

The Banshee trailed off, letting her words linger in the air.

Jaina was capable of reading between the lines and fill in the spaces, however. “The Alliance thinks I’m dead, don’t they?”

Surprisingly, Sylvanas did not smirk. “They’re not wrong to think so. You _are_ dead, Lady Proudmoore.”

A withering glare was the reply to that quip. “I’m aware of that, _Warchief_. I may be dead but I am not _gone_ , and _that_ is an important distinction to be made.”

The Elf nodded, saying nothing further. Those sharp, calculating eyes observed her reactions carefully just as they had when she’d first woken up. 

_Does she think I’m about to have another outburst?_ The way those eyes looked at her, analyzing every twitch and movement seemed to indicate as much. _Or are you measuring me, Sylvanas?_

Well, she would simply have to prove that she was not to be found wanting. “It’s for the best that they think so right now. I don’t believe we should change that yet.” 

She derived quite a bit of satisfaction from seeing Sylvanas’ eyebrows jump a little and her ears perk up in surprise. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to the Alliance?”

“Not right now,” Jaina said. “I will speak with them soon, but not…not yet.”

“And why is it that you think it would be a good idea to hide from your own faction?” Sylvanas’ tone gave nothing away, but there was something about her that irked Jaina and made her bristle again.

“I need to figure out what to say to them so that they’ll understand my choice, Sylvanas.” She sighed, forcing her hackles down and running a hand through her hair. She was pleasantly surprised to discover it was still quite soft to the touch. She had expected for it to be…different. “I am not foolish enough to believe that they will simply take it at face value if I say I asked you for this, even if I explained my reasoning to them.” 

Her circumstances had been desperate when she’d strong-armed Sylvanas into bringing her back. She wanted to believe that she would be able to find a way to convince her friends of the truth of her words. She simply needed to find the best way to break the news to them so that they would _understand._

Sylvanas was already shaking her head, her brows twitching as if to form a frown that never materialized. “You don’t think ahead enough, Lady Proudmoore. Your precious Alliance will see this as deception on my part. They will think I have been purposefully hiding you and keeping you away from them as part of whatever scheme I would have concocted in their minds.” Her ears were pinned back to her skull, and Jaina could tell from the clench of her jaw that it was with effort that she was keeping her tone neutral. “Further proof that I had nothing but the worst of intentions when Raising you.”

“No. I will make them see that that is not the case.” Jaina matched Sylvanas’ pessimism with her conviction, trying to will the Banshee into believing the truth of her words. “They will listen to me. I _know_ they will.”

Sylvanas gave a sharp exhale and closed her eyes for a short moment before training them back on Jaina. “Regardless of whether they will or not, there is one reason why I agree with your…plan.” 

It was difficult to force down the irritation at the small, but _very deliberate_ pause that the Warchief made before she said the word ‘plan,’ but she managed somehow. Jaina wasn’t sure her body could handle another loss of control like what had happened earlier. “What reason is that?”

“Your magic being unstable is not a coincidence, Lady Proudmoore,” Sylvanas said airily, even as the area around her eyes tightened slightly in an almost-frown again. “It will continue to be so until you can acclimate to being a Forsaken and have accepted your new unlife.”

Jaina blinked. “Is that why you said you had expected me to get angry at some point or another?”

“That is the reason, yes,” Sylvanas said dryly. “A period of adjustment is necessary for everyone who is Raised, but it is more… _demanding_ if the individual in question is at war with what they are.”

“I-I see.” Well, then, this wouldn’t be difficult _at all._ She may have volunteered to be Forsaken, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t still think the Forsaken were monsters, mockeries and shadows of their former selves. Twisted by having had their chance at the peace of death ripped away from them, made bitter and angry from it all. 

She had accepted that she would become one such monster when she’d asked for this, and had fully intended to loathe what she would become, if she even retained her own mind to begin with. 

Now she was even denied the basic pleasure of hating the choices that the hand of circumstance had forced onto her.

Wonderful.

“How long does this adjustment period usually take?” Jaina hoped it wouldn’t be _too_ long. Things needed to get done, and N’Zoth wouldn’t wait patiently around for her to get a handle on her new existence.

“It varies from person to person. Some take more time to acclimate than others; some are angry, just as you were, while others take rather well to this unlife. In your case, I was fully expecting the outburst given your _opinions_ on my people before you died as well as the general…’outlook’ that the Alliance overall has on us. You may have asked for this, but it would have been impossible for you to not think ‘what manner of creature am I now?’ after seeing yourself for the first time and realizing that you yourself are now ‘one of those creatures’.”

The words were spoken in the same even tone that Sylvanas had had from the start, but her eyes had become hard and closed off, guarded, as they bore into Jaina’s own. One of the Elf’s ears flicked lightly in what she could recognize as irritation from having seen Vereesa’s do the exact same thing when she was exasperated by something or another, and it made her feel both small and indignant at the same time. 

_Don’t get angry, don’t get angry, don’t get angry._

Jaina took in a deep breath and was once again confronted with the disconcerting reality that it truly did nothing to soothe her nerves now. She would need to remember that and try to find more effective ways to rein in her temper. 

She could choose to go back to her questions and toward having answers about what all of this now entailed…or she could instead try to find out something that she’d been wondering vaguely ever since she was alive.

“For all that I can see you judging me due to my perspective on this, I can’t imagine that _you_ were exactly thrilled to find yourself being brought into unlife, Warchief.” Jaina observed, doing her best to try and keep an even tone instead of letting the curiosity she felt, as well as a need to poke at the Warchief, bleed over. “What was _your_ awakening like?”

Sylvanas squinted at her for a long, long moment, to the point that Jaina began to feel awkward and was about to ask something else in order to change the subject, before she spoke at last. “My ‘experience’ was rather different from yours. I had been fighting for my kingdom, for my people, for days on end. I had seen the forests I had patrolled and guarded since I was young be obliterated and corrupted by the advance of the Scourge. An advance we couldn’t stop, no matter how hard we fought or what tactics we used. An army that needed no rest, no food, and that cared little of how many we sent to meet True Death marched endlessly forward, further and further into our territory.” 

Her frame tensed further, and her ears were alert and standing up fully, with her voice having fallen completely flat. And her eyes…it wasn’t as though Jaina was adept at reading Sylvanas by any measure, but she was able to get hints and ideas of what the Banshee had been feeling throughout this conversation. Now, she was a wall. Those blazing red eyes revealed nothing as she carried on with her story. “I had seen my comrades, Mages and Warriors, Priests and Rangers alike, being taken from their eternal rest in the arms of the Goddess and forced to fight against us. Every one of us that fell simply bolstered the ranks of the dead, and though the Outer Gates had been overrun and many of my forces had died in our attempt to defend it, we had hoped that the Inner Gate would be the salvation of our people. Even as I hoped and prayed that the shields would hold, I still ordered the bridge leading to the second gate be destroyed, that the Scourge may no longer be able to cross the sacred river that was another of our countermeasures against invaders. I took no chances, because I had seen the devastation they could bring, and I wanted none of them near Silvermoon.”

Sylvanas’ brows twitched and finally formed a deep scowl, her fangs bared at a memory that she could clearly still see vividly. “We were optimistic fools. The bridge may have been gone, but a little thing like that wouldn’t stop _him_ from getting what he wanted.” The word was spat with such hatred and disgust that Jaina instinctively knew not only to whom Sylvanas referred, but also inferred that it would be wise to never say his name anywhere near the Banshee. “He ordered his lesser minions to form a _bridge of corpses_ so that they could cross. The Inner Gate remained, but it was compromised by treachery, and so it fell as well. _Ban’dinoriel,_ the impenetrable shield that had protected Silvermoon ever since its founding, was shattered when the keystones that powered it were stolen and destroyed, and thus the defenses that had held together for over six thousand years were rendered futile in two days’ time.”

Her eyes blazed a deep, burning crimson as she continued. “ _My_ awakening was to be torn from the entrance to Belore’s Hunting Fields. With my army having joined _his_ ranks after they had all been slaughtered and nothing but the very best, bravest, and last of my Rangers left, we chose to make a final stand against that godless _bastard_ in a village just before the capital. It was clear to us by then that none of our runners had made it to Silvermoon and no reinforcements would arrive, as the Magisters had their orders to remain within the city unless sent for. They were to protect our people and the Sunwell at the cost of their own lives if we were to fall, and under no circumstance other than an emergency summons from the Ranger-General would they leave their posts.” 

Sylvanas’ expression was dark as night, and Jaina could hear the contained rage in her every word. “Of course, we fell, and no one was the wiser to it until it was too late. My Rangers were killed one by one by his servants, while he made a beeline for me and left me half-dead after our ensuing battle. I demanded a clean death, which was what I deserved after the life I had led, and for a moment I saw the lands where my people are meant to go when we die, but he plunged Frostmourne into my chest and tore my soul from my body, ripping me away from my rightful place and pulling me back into an unlife of eternal torment as a ‘reward’ for everything I had put him through.” 

“I was made his _slave_ to serve at his whim, unable to defy him or do anything that was not a direct order, but he was not content with that. Oh no, as another ‘gift’ he ‘allowed’ me to keep my conscience, so that I would _see_ what he would force me to do in his name as I beat at the inside of my own mind. So that I would be aware of every single one of the murders he made me commit for him. So that I would _suffer_ even more as he used me, turned me into a weapon against the very people I had died defending. So that I would ‘pay the price’ of having defied him, and he laughed and laughed while doing it.”

Sylvanas’ voice was low and soft, but her rage, her _hurt,_ at the helplessness she had felt back then, at the horrors she’d both endured and been made to take an unwilling part of, could not have been hidden had the she been whispering. “He demanded submission from my people so that he could defile our most sacred site unhindered by further resistance. My people refused and tried to fight back valiantly, so he brought me out.” 

Her register deepened and adopted a mocking, snide edge that made Jaina bristle and immediately feel an almost irresistible desire to punch her in the face. “‘Your precious Ranger-General, who so foolishly defied me, is now my puppet to do with as I wish. Will you all follow in her steps, or will you choose wisely?’” 

Sylvanas’ voice returned to normal, and something akin to pride, though it could have been something else, entered into it in her next breath. “Those were the words that greeted the last remaining defenders of Silvermoon, my brave people who did not falter in the face of what he had done. I could see the shock, the heartbreak, the _fear_ and _revulsion_ they felt when they saw what he’d made of me, but they still chose to fight him. They knew it was pointless, but they fought to the bitter end.”

The pride-like _something_ vanished, and once again the Banshee’s tone was dark and dangerous as she finished her tale. “Those that didn’t flee stood their ground, and they were slaughtered for it. I had hoped that Quel’Danas would be safe, but I learned that day that hope was for children and fools, for he easily froze the water of the ocean that separated the sacred island from the rest of the kingdom and easily marched toward the Sunwell. There he met King Anasterian, and though he fought valiantly, our King also fell before that damnable blade. The Sunwell was defiled, the kingdom lay in ruins, and my people were barely hanging on by a thread.” 

“ _That,_ Lady Proudmoore, was my awakening.” 

Jaina couldn’t help but feel a muted kind of horror as Sylvanas told her the story of what she now knew was the Fall of Silvermoon, and laid bare what other cruelties Arthas had done that she’d been unaware of. 

She hadn’t had the chance to hear about the almost demise of the Elves for the longest time, for she had been sailing for Kalimdor at the time, and what little news she’d gotten afterward never delved into the specifics of what had happened. 

Now…hearing what it had been like, from the person that had been on the frontlines, from someone that had clearly fought to the bitter end to try and defend her people, Jaina felt even more horrified at the entire thing. She was sure that if she were human, she would have been sick. A heavy, nearly-unbearable weight had lodged itself in her chest, and she couldn’t help the tears that began falling from her eyes as the amount of suffering that this woman had so clearly gone through was exposed to her for the very first time in her life.

_Arthas…what did you do? How did you become that?_

Jaina had loved Arthas when she was young. She had made plans and she’d had dreams of what their life would be like once they were married and had settled in to rule together. She had dreamed of a grand wedding where her father would jokingly threaten Arthas into treating her well, both Daelin and Terenas laughing after at the notion that Arthas could be anything but a good, kind husband. She’d dreamed of her mother doubling down on the threatening, making it subtly known that Arthas would be dealing with _Katherine_ and not Daelin if the boy were to make her daughter unhappy. 

She’d dreamed of living in Lordaeron and helping Arthas with the running the kingdom, dividing her time between the affairs of Lordaeron and her responsibilities to the Kirin Tor. She’d dreamed of happy subjects who thought them fair rulers and would say that they made King Terenas proud. She’d dreamed of children that would be her and Arthas’ pride and joy, following in their mother and father’s footsteps to become great mages and scholars, or dashing knights that would help those in need. She had constructed an idyllic little world in her mind, one that had seen a few changes as she grew up and started to know more of what the world was like, but whose foundations had been sure and steady even when she and Arthas fought.

Knowing what she knew now, what the charming boy with sun-gold hair and the happy, bright smile of her memories and around whom she had built her whole future would become…the atrocities he would commit, the people he would murder, the sheer _pleasure_ he would derive from it all…she couldn’t help but wonder if the image that she’d had of Arthas in her head was nothing more than the fancy of a foolish girl who knew nothing at all.

What was there to say in response to such a story as Sylvanas had told her? What could Jaina possibly say that would be able to express what she felt in that moment, after hearing such a tale of heartbreak and pain to the one that had _lived through it?_ What could she say, as she realized that what little shred of affection she’d still held for the memories of Arthas had been her clinging futilely to an image that she had crafted from whole cloth, an idealized version that had only existed in her head because she’d been young and foolish and hadn’t spotted the makings of a monster in time?

 _Time._ Jaina had a love-hate relationship with the concept. She never seemed to have enough of it when she needed it, and she had wondered many, many times since the Third War if there was something she could have done to prevent Arthas from becoming what he did. If there had only been enough time…but she was never that lucky.

“I am so sorry.” _I’m sorry you went through all of that, I’m sorry I loved him, I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, I’m sorry I wasn’t enough, I’m sorry I have never been enough, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ “Sylvanas, I-I am so sorry.”

She was beginning to spiral, but she didn’t care a whit. She was sickened by what she’d heard, aghast and appalled by the sheer _cruelty_ that her former lover had been capable of, and a dark voice in the back of her head began to whisper all of her faults and failures again. 

She was startled out of her internal tirade of self-loathing by soft, musical laughter. Her eyes snapped back to Sylvanas, and she could see that the Elf was-was _laughing_ , but it didn’t feel mocking or unkind. More…wistful? Melancholic? She couldn’t really tell.

“You couldn’t have known the details, Lady Proudmoore,” Sylvanas said, having gone back to her even tone and more relaxed posture of before, but there was something…almost _gentle_ in her voice. “But yes, that was my awakening, and for many of my people it was the same. After the Val’kyr joined me, I ensured that it would never be the same for any new Forsaken.” 

Her eyes met Jaina’s again meaningfully, and it was in that moment that Jaina understood, the realization hitting her like a warhammer to the gut.

“That’s why you brought me here and laid me down in bed.” The candle had finally been lit in her mind, the answer to the question _why are you here?_ that she hadn’t dared ask. “That’s why you gave me clean clothes and why you were waiting, even though you have other things you should undoubtedly be doing.”

She felt ashamed now, deeply, fully, _thoroughly_ ashamed of the way she’d lost control when she’d seen herself in the mirror. 

_I didn’t want you to wake up alone. I wanted your awakening to be gentler than my own,_ was all but spelled out in front of Jaina, and the something heavy in her chest became all the heavier but also _warm._

How was it possible to be so…so _wrong_ about one woman? In one single afternoon, Sylvanas Windrunner was completely destroying the image of her that Jaina had held as an evil, heartless tyrant; a soulless, warmongering Banshee that only cared about her own personal power and prestige. _What else have I been wrong about?_

The possibility existed that Sylvanas was lying to her, of course, and perhaps she shouldn’t take what the Banshee Queen was saying at face value like that, but her recounting of the events made _sense_ to Jaina. What she’d been told just now was in line with the petty, spiteful cruelty that she’d seen from Arthas after he became the Lich King, it was in line with the stories she’d heard before of Silvermoon’s brave and famed Ranger-General when she’d been but a student in Dalaran, and they were in line with what little of the rumors she had heard of what had happened there in the aftermath. 

Then there was the fact that this was the most emotion she’d seen from Sylvanas during this entire exchange. Instead of an impassive mask with only a few twitches here and there, she’d gotten angry, her entire body had reacted, and her eyes had _burned_ as they bore into Jaina’s, so it gave even more truth to the whole thing. It made _sense_ , and Jaina had the feeling that if she were to try and verify the story, she would find that the details were exactly as she’d been told, or perhaps even worse.

Sylvanas seemed to sense some of her inner turmoil, because her features softened the slightest bit. “Any other questions you may have? You really haven’t asked much yet, and only one was essential.”

That…was true. “How do Forsaken sustain themselves? There is magic that preserves the body from decaying further and experiencing true death unless killed, but there has to be something that fuels that, doesn’t it?”

Sylvanas nodded approvingly. “Very good question, and an important one at that. There is a variety of ways that we can sustain ourselves, but most prefer to simply eat and allow that to replenish their strength.”

Jaina blinked in confusion at that. “I thought Forsaken didn’t _need_ to eat or sleep?”

Sylvanas chuffed lightly at that, and it was such an unexpected sound that Jaina was sure that if her heart could still beat, it would have skipped at least once. “It is on a need-to-do basis, Lady Proudmoore. Forsaken don’t need to eat, sleep, or drink in the way living races do, but we _do_ need to have some form of sustenance to heal our bodies and keep the magic that preserves us functioning. Food is one way to do that. Another, and a more efficient manner actually, would be to consume mana directly through those mana foods that you mages are able to conjure.”

Jaina thought about the implications of such a thing. “So what you’re telling me is that as long as there are mages around, the Forsaken will _never_ go, uh, ’hungry’ even if there is scarcity and food shortages?”

Sylvanas nodded again, clearly pleased with the conclusion she’d drawn. “Correct. It’s not the best in terms of taste variety, since from what I know all mana foods are sweet, but it _is_ the most efficient way to regain our strength.”

The Lich was dumbfounded once again at what she was hearing. “’Not the best in terms of taste variety’? Forsaken can…Forsaken can _taste things_?” She didn’t dare hope to have a positive answer to that inquiry, but it seemed her dead heart was just as foolish as it had been while she’d been alive. 

_Have I not lost everything?_

“…” Sylvanas gave a short, sharp exhale. “It…varies. Some can taste more than others. Some can even get drunk still. Our bodies do not function like those of the living, but there are…echoes…that remain of when we were alive. Although it is not necessary unless the need to heal is pressing or if one begins to feel a little weaker and fainter, many choose to eat simply because they still enjoy the taste of food and drink. Not everything is driven by necessity with us, but it is so in the battlefield, which is why you wouldn’t have known about this before.” 

Her jaw clenched the slightest bit and one of her hands twitched inwards lightly as well. “For you specifically, I cannot say exactly how much you will be able to taste compared to when you were alive, but I can assure you that you _will_ be able to taste things. All of your senses should still be there and functional, just muted somewhat by the veil of undeath.”

The confidence with which those words were said was completely puzzling to Jaina. How could the Warchief possibly know that? “I- How are you so sure of this?”

“You are a second-generation Forsaken. They are the ones that have retained most of their senses and who are closer to their living selves than the rest of us.”

“Second…generation…” There were generations now? What? “How did the classification come about?”

Red eyes closed for a moment before opening again, something in them having become harder once more. “First-generation Forsaken are the original. Those of us that were Raised in _his_ service, as part of the Scourge. We were only lackeys that he could use and abuse to his will, bodies to throw at whomever would stand in his way. He didn’t exactly care much about the state we were in when he brought us back.” 

Her jaw clenched firmly, the Banshee definitely reining in her anger as she spoke of Arthas once again. “There was also the fact that Frostmourne was a powerful, _cursed_ runeblade. There were things that could be achieved with that power that would have been impossible otherwise.”

Jaina could only imagine what ‘impossible otherwise’ meant in this context. Given what she had heard already… _What more did you **do,** Arthas? Will I ever reach the end of the list detailing your crimes, or will I always find something new?_

“What did he do to you?” She asked, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. How much _actual_ damage had he _done_ before the Champions and Tirion had put an end to his cruel reign? 

“Banshees are incorporeal beings that he fashioned to be as useful to him as possible, imbued with special abilities that couldn’t be granted to anyone else. As souls separated from our physical selves, our bodies, we were fairly unique and he used that to his full advantage,” Sylvanas said stiffly. “As for the bodies, he locked mine away in an iron coffin sealed with powerful magic to ensure I would not be able to ever get it back, but he was a paranoid bastard. In case I managed to somehow break his hold over me and recover it, he made sure I would be denied as many mundane pleasures as he could think of.”

Jaina had a horrible sense of what was coming, but it didn’t make the situation any better.

Her fears were confirmed as Sylvanas continued, “I cannot taste anything at all. It is not even as if it were ash, there is simply _nothing_. It is the same with drinks. Although I can feel the liquid, there is no flavour that comes with it. Nothing at all.”

Jaina felt sick again. _**Damn you,** Arthas. Was there no end to your pettiness?_

“What about—what about the rest of your senses? Did he…” She couldn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t know if she wanted an answer or not. 

“Not in the way you’re thinking of.” Sylvanas gave a small sigh, a deep-seated _tiredness_ falling over her face for a split second before she composed herself again and the impassive mask was back in place. “My eyesight and hearing have been muted some, as is normal for our kind, but they are still rather exceptional. My sense of smell is the same, but he didn’t mess with those since he wanted to use me as a general for his armies. Should I have regained my body while still under his grip, it would have been _inconvenient_ for him were I to not be able to _perform_ to his expectations, so he did not really touch those.” She gritted her teeth again, her lips pursing deeply. “Normally, my sense of touch is…average for Forsaken, I suppose. Relatively dimmed, except in one instance.”

“He made it so that you would feel immense pain, didn’t he? Whenever it would be expected for you to feel it?” Was it possible for Forsaken to throw up? Jaina felt like she could empty her stomach right then and there, even though there was obviously nothing in it. Tides help her.

“…Good guess. I will always heal slower from wounds than I normally should, and if I am injured, no matter how small it may be, it feels far more intensely than when I was alive.”

If there had been blood left in Jaina’s face, it would have drained out of it long, long ago. Her eyes drifted again to the wounds that had stopped bleeding ichor at least, but that were reminders of just how badly she must have hurt the Banshee during her outburst. She had a feeling that Sylvanas would not appreciate her mentioning it, but she couldn’t help worrying about the infernal amount of pain she must have caused her before and the deep-seated shame she’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance.

“My eyes are up here, Lady Proudmoore,” Sylvanas said, her tone… _teasing?_

Jaina easily ignored the quip and immediately asked, “Is there anything that can be done?”

Sylvanas shrugged, and the almost _unconcerned_ nature of the gesture offended Jaina on her behalf. “If there is, I do not know of it. It is a curse that was placed on me, and only me, out of pettiness and spite for all the ‘trouble’ I gave him as he destroyed my homeland.” Her posture relaxed a fraction when she spoke next, her face visibly softening. “At the very least, I was the only one to be made to bear this. I am grateful that he didn’t go after my Rangers once he was done with me.”

Jaina hardly heard the latter part of that statement, too busy as her mind began to race wildly. _If it is a curse, though, it must have a counter,_ she frowned as the idea took root, her thoughts getting away from her as the possibilities ran in fast forward through her mind. _Ordinary Spellbreakers may not have been strong enough to challenge Frostmourne’s might, but I’m no ordinary Spellbreaker. It will require some hard work and likely a few inquiries…some experiments…a lot of time in the library, if the Forsaken even **have** a library, but it **should** be feasible. Perhaps…Perhaps there is something I can do for her._

At the very least it would hardly do any harm to look into it. Secretly, of course, until she had something substantive and concrete to show for it. And if she could give something back to Sylvanas…well, it would only be fair, wouldn’t it? After all, Sylvanas had agreed to and granted her dying wish even though she’d had reservations about it. A favour for a favour should be acceptable.

…Not to mention that she still felt horribly guilty for having hurt the Elf as badly as she had, and she really, _really_ wanted to offer a more concrete apology for that than the babble she’d managed earlier. She had the nagging feeling that Sylvanas would simply brush her off if she mentioned it again, but if she offered it not as an apology but as returning the favour, maybe it would be better received?

“—not listening, are you?”

Jaina started, blinking rapidly at Sylvanas. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was asking if you had any further questions for me before noticing you had gone off into your own little world,” Sylvanas said, her tone continuing to hold the same evenness it had held for most of the conversation, but there was an almost imperceptible twinkle in her red eyes that showed she was amused. If that hadn’t been clue enough, her left ear was flicking lightly again, in a way that was familiar to her from all the times Vereesa had done it while laughing at something or another during their many get-togethers. 

Jaina felt a small pang of nostalgia hit her as she began to think of how similar the Windrunner sisters were, which promptly turned to sadness when her mind wondered at how it had all gone so very wrong for them. 

_How much do you actually know of what happened to your sister, Vereesa?_ She wouldn’t be surprised if _she_ now knew more about Sylvanas’ time as a Banshee than her own sister did. 

Jaina stored the thought away for later, to ponder when she was alone. For now, Sylvanas was right in that they should get back on track.

“Right. You were explaining the differences between first-generation and second-generation Forsaken.”

“Ah, yes.” Sylvanas shifted slightly, recrossing her arms and leaning against the wall again. “The differences are not noticeable at a glance. As a general rule, you won’t be able to spot someone and be able to classify them based on visual cues alone. Physical decay is somewhat more pronounced in the first generation, as I’ve already explained, and you’ll find a lot more variety in terms of mutedness when it comes to sensations. Some cannot taste anything, smell very little, and they don’t feel things when they touch them.” 

Jaina didn’t like the sound of that. “Is that normal for the first generation?”

“Somewhat. It is mostly due to the state they were in when they were brought back. Most will retain a semblance of their senses, but the degree to which they can see, feel, hear, taste, and so on is generally far more muted than those that were Raised by me or my Val’kyr.” Sylvanas sighed at that, an old, weary sigh whose meaning Jaina could only begin to divine. “They are some of the most hardworking of my people, and some of the first to volunteer for the most dangerous of missions as well.”

“Of course,” Jaina said softly. She could easily imagine why those people were the first to volunteer for hard, dangerous missions. They were trapped in a joyless existence, where they were almost completely cut off from the world around them in every possible way. If that had been her fate, Jaina wasn’t sure she would have been strong enough to not go mad. “Is there anything else that, uh, makes us distinct?” 

She was sure she’d somehow said something wrong again when Sylvanas stared at her for another long, long moment, the silence tense and awkward and heavy. It made Jaina want to squirm, but she didn’t want to give the Warchief a reason to see her as weak, so she forced herself to stay still.

At last, Sylvanas answered, “Perhaps the most important thing to note is that none of you are barred from the afterlife.”

For the third time since the conversation had begun Jaina could not understand, for the unlife of her, what exactly those words meant. She had heard them, but it was as if her brain could not process them correctly, leaving her stumped. “I—what? The afterlife?”

The Banshee Queen gave another short, sharp exhale, that Jaina was beginning to recognize as the other woman’s version of an exasperated sigh. “Do you remember earlier, when you asked me about my awakening?”

 _As if that were something I could ever forget._ Jaina doubted she would ever be able to get the horrific picture that Sylvanas had painted for her out of her mind. “Yes.”

“I was not being dramatic or exaggerating when I said that I was brought back into an unlife of eternal torment,” Sylvanas’ said, averting her gaze and looking out the window even as her gauntlets dug into her jerkin deeply and left gouges in the leather. “Frostmourne’s curse ran deep, and from what I know…all of us who were Raised by it will never be able to reunite with our ancestors or loved ones in the Lands Beyond, whether that is the Realm of the Honoured Dead, Belore’s Hunting Fields, the Light’s Domain or whatever else. Not even the Shadowlands are to receive us. When we die, we will instead go into a black void where there is nothing but the whispers of our own regrets. It is a realm of anguish, where there is only hopelessness and terror, and where our greatest mistakes and failures will be forever paraded in front of us.”

If Arthas hadn’t been Truly Dead already, Jaina would have sought him out and made him meet the Void herself. “That is to be the fate of all Forsaken?”

“The fate of all that were touched by that thrice-damned runeblade, yes. As I said, yours will be different.”

The Lich was not convinced. “How do you know that?”

Sylvanas’ gaze snapped to her pointedly, her whole frame going rigid and her eyes blazing an unholy crimson as her whole face darkened. “Because I am _not_ him. I swore I would _never_ be like him, and I have done my utmost to keep to the oath I took on the day I broke free from his hold.” 

Her voice was a low, venomous hiss that signaled danger, the Banshee having lost her composure for the second time and allowing her mask to crack, revealing the anger within. “Despite what the Alliance may have told you, Lady Proudmoore, I do _not_ Raise people against their will or curse them into a miserable existence for my own twisted pleasure. My Val’kyr know which souls are willing to continue fighting, which regret having fallen in battle, and which wish to pass on to the beyond. They only bring back those that are willing to serve again and wish to have a second chance.” 

The Elf snarled, baring her fangs at her. “After everything _he_ put me through, what he put _my people_ through, do you think I would _ever_ do the same to others? Bend them to my will, make puppets of them and force them to slaughter their friends and family on a whim of mine? Parading them as sick trophies while I laugh maniacally and use them as a fear tactic to get their living loved ones and others who would know of them to surrender to me?” 

Her whole frame shook, her ears pinned back firmly against her skull, as black smoke began to rise from her body. “Everyone who serves me is here because they wish to be. I _have never_ and _will never_ rob them of their freedom the way I was stripped of mine, the way _all_ of them were before I broke my chains and helped them break theirs. I do not claim to have never done wrong in my life, but I do not _enslave_ people.”

“…” Jaina was stunned silent at the intensity of the response her question had garnered, and she would need to store that information to process later. She was going to have to reevaluate a _lot_ more than she already had on the list, and she currently did not possess enough brainpower to process this latest small, impassioned rant on top of everything else. No. Just no. “I meant ‘how can you be sure that they— _we_ —will be able to go into the proper afterlife?’ I was not questioning your character, Sylvanas.” 

_I **am** beginning to question just how much I really know about your side of the story, if anything at all._ Another thought for later. There was much she would need to consider, especially if they, the Alliance, had really all been so wrong about the Banshee Queen.

Somehow, Jaina thought they may have just been that wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, trying to soothe the feathers she had unintentionally ruffled quite badly. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were—that you _are_ like him. I see why you thought I did, and I’m sorry. I could have phrased that better.”

The change was not immediate, but it was definitely noticeable. Slowly, Sylvanas’ body untensed and her snarl fell away, her hands uncurling from the fists they had formed and her face losing the menace it had acquired during the Banshee’s small rant. The black smoke that had begun to rise from her in thin wisps had also vanished without a trace.

“I-I understand. It’s not…” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s also my fault. Yes, perhaps you could have phrased your question better, but I also misinterpreted the meaning of it, and for that I am sorry.”

Jaina would have been surprised to hear _Sylvanas Windrunner_ apologizing before, but her image of the Warchief had been so thoroughly destroyed as it was that she simply stored the gesture away to obsess and overanalyze later, just like everything else. 

“It is only your first day, it’s normal to not be quite yourself just yet,” Sylvanas continued, her body finally relaxing fully again, as much as the Banshee ever relaxed at least, as if the reminder had been enough to finish siphoning the last of her remaining anger. 

The Warchief leaned against the wall again and let her head rest against the cool stone for a short moment before straightening again. “To answer your actual question, then, my Val’kyr are able to sense that sort of thing. Many times they have escorted the fallen to the Lands Beyond and seen them be reunited with their loved ones there. They are a part of me, so I know for certain that you whom have been Raised by their power, will be able to gain entry to the afterlife without trouble.”

That was both reassuring and _wildly_ unfair at the same time. “It’s because of Frostmourne’s curse, then, that you cannot go there?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes. That is the reason why.”

Jaina had more she wanted to say, but a dizzy spell hit her and she fell back against the incredibly comfortable bed. Now that she thought about it, her limbs felt heavy and she felt a bit disoriented, the effects of her earlier outburst finally catching up with her, no doubt.

Seeing this, Sylvanas softened and pushed herself off the wall. “You should rest, Lady Proudmoore. Today has been long and tiring as is, and you need to recover your strength after what happened earlier.”

“I don’t feel sleepy, though,” Jaina protested half-heartedly. Even if not to sleep, she knew that Sylvanas was right and she should probably remain lying down and somehow try to begin processing everything she’d learned so far. 

Sylvanas shook her head lightly, the smallest hints of a smile turning the corners of her lips. “So very stubborn. You will never again feel sleepy, but you will be able to fall asleep if you actively try to do so.”

“Oh. Is that how it works?” That was new and interesting. 

“That is, indeed, how it works.” At this point she was _almost_ sure that the Warchief was making fun of her, but she didn’t feel like arguing about that. She still gave her a small glare for her trouble.

The Elf chuckled softly and approached Jaina silently, her footsteps completely imperceptible, before placing a hand on the Lich’s shoulder. “Rest, Lady Proudmoore. And do not worry if you feel disoriented or don’t recall parts of this conversation when you wake. It is quite normal for young Forsaken to have trouble making too much sense of things during their first few weeks. Gaps in recollection and keeping things straight in your mind may be a bit of a challenge for a while.”

 _That_ was going to be fun to deal with. Sighing petulantly, Jaina nodded her agreement and made herself comfortable in the giant bed, taking comfort in the scent of leather, flowers, and cold steel that the pillow held.

The last words she heard were a softly-delivered “Sleep well,” before she fell into unconsciousness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astute readers may have noticed that there is a "1/2" in the chapter counter. That is because this story will, indeed, have a second chapter that will be focused on Sylvanas' perspective while all of this was happening. As mentioned before, since here we followed Jaina's point of view, we are only seeing what she thinks and feels and how she interprets Sylvanas' expressions and movements, which can, and are, wrong in certain instances. I hope it'll at least be entertaining to see the discrepancies in what Jaina thinks is going through Sylvanas' mind, and what is actually going on there, as well as filling in on details that Sylvanas has not shared with Jaina in here.
> 
> Oh, and since the series is going to be made up of individual stories that may have a varying number of chapters, please subscribe to that instead of each individual story to get notified whenever something new is added.
> 
>  **EDIT:** Me am dumb and I forgot. Behold! [Frost Lich Jaina in all her glory!](http://hdqwalls.com/wallpapers/frost-lich-jaina-hearthstone-2018-o2.jpg)


	2. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours upon hours of banging my head against my desk, fifteen hundred mugs of tea and a couple of coffees, a lot of struggle and much nonsense later, Sylvanas' side of this is finally done. I'm sorry for the long wait, it's been difficult to find the correct words to structure things and to get anything down on paper, if you will. It's uh, it's a _lot_ longer than Jaina's side at least? I hope that, in some small way, that can make up for the length of time between chapters one and two.

Had she been anyone else, Sylvanas would have sighed.

The aftermath of the Naga assault was a mess. The amount of death and destruction the brutes had caused was not particularly big in the grand scheme of things, but they had chosen an incredibly inconvenient time to attack. The Alliance had lost a third of the Champions they had brought to the summit, and over three quarters of the accompanying soldiers that had served as an honour guard had been killed as well. 

It rankled Sylvanas that the numbers were not much better for her Horde. 

Normally she would be out there, directing the people in the field and ensuring that the wounded were being tended to, the dead were properly identified, burials or pyres being prepared, and generally taking stock of the situation. She needed to make plans, marshal her forces, coordinate with the other leaders, probably even try to reach out to Wrynn’s cub and organize a new place of conference for renewed ceasefire talks. This assault had been precisely the proof of why they needed to set aside their animosity for one another and work together again, lest they leave nothing but easy pickings for Azshara once the Naga Queen finally deigned to enter the scene herself.

Instead she had left the fieldwork to her Rangers with strict instructions to have reports on everything on her desk as soon as possible, and had accompanied two of her faithful Val’kyr over to Lordaeron, where she was now forcing herself not to pace as she waited for Brynja and Aradne to give her news on Jaina Proudmoore’s condition.

Not for the first time, Sylvanas wondered if she had done the right thing when she’d ordered them to bring back the Lord Admiral. This had the potential to go _severely_ sideways for her, and there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that she had opened the doors to an entire host of problems that she did _not_ need on top of everything that was currently going on. 

As it was, the only thing she could hope for was that her reasoning for having chosen to Raise Proudmoore would prove sound and the woman would prove the asset Sylvanas believed her to be.

Otherwise, they were all doomed.

She was thinking of calling a meeting with the other Horde leaders as soon as the reports came in so that they could discuss their next step when she was interrupted in her musings by Brynja appearing beside her.

“My Lady, I have news on the mage you wished us to Raise.”

“What’s wrong?” Sylvanas knew that something must not have gone to plan if Brynja was here telling her she had ‘news’ instead of saying that Proudmoore was back already.

The Val’kyr hesitated for a split second and then spoke. “We…are unable to return her to this realm as we are. She is too powerful to be Raised, even with Aradne and I combining of our magic together.”

Sylvanas exhaled sharply. Well, then, it seemed like she was going to need to adjust her plans and _fast._ “I do not imagine that having Kyra, Signe, and Sigrid with you both would help with that, would it?”

Brynja shook her head, her wings flapping gently as she floated steadily in place. “It would not, my Lady. Jaina Proudmoore’s spirit is much too strong for even all five of us to bring back so simply.” She paused momentarily before continuing. “We could still return her to you, if you so wish, but Aradne and I would need to take her place…as Annhylde did with you.”

 _As Agatha, Arthura, and Daschla have also done,_ went unsaid, but Sylvanas could hear it in her own mind.

Sylvanas closed her eyes and exhaled sharply again. She had thought it might come to that, but she hadn’t wanted to jump to it as a first conclusion. 

Her Val’kyr were precious to her, the only reason why she was not still trapped in that horrible void in which she had ended up when she’d thrown herself off of Icecrown’s summit and into a field of Saronite. They were the way forward for her people, and _damn_ Greymane for having jeopardised her one chance to gain more of them. 

That was without touching on the bond that Sylvanas shared with her Val’kyr. When they had made the pact, when the Val’kyr had sworn themselves to her, they and Sylvanas had become _bonded._ Bonded in a permanent way, a link that could no more be pried from her than anyone could pry off one of their arms without tearing it off at the base. They had enhanced her already-considerable powers and made her into something _more_ than even the Banshee Queen she’d used to be, granting her new abilities and having become a part of her in the process. Having to give up _two_ of them was a steep price to pay, especially since Annhylde, Arthura, Agatha, and Daschla were already gone, and she did not relish the thought of losing Brynja and Aradne as well. It would be painful in all meanings of the word if she did, for she could actively feel it in her soul whenever anything happened to them.

 _Belore, why must I always be faced with impossible decisions at every turn?_ She grumbled internally as she began to calculate the end results of the choices she had before her.

On the one hand she could allow Proudmoore to pass on fully, to rejoin her people wherever it was that Kul Tirans ended up after meeting their end, and she could keep her Val’kyr. The problem was that if she did that then she was then back at square one, where they were left with a weakened army that did not have the single most powerful Archmage in the world as its spearpoint to decimate the minions of the Old Gods. They would fight, and perhaps they would even win, but their chances would be drastically reduced by having one of the strongest pieces on the board removed from play. One that was not only powerful but also _versatile_ , and flexibility was clearly something they would need if they wanted to win this upcoming war against N’Zoth and his followers.

Proudmoore’s strength was not only in her sheer raw power, although that was not something to scoff at, but in her mastery of a variety of magical disciplines. Most people, those that had never seen her on the battlefield anyway, believed her to be a simple Frost mage, for that was the element the woman had defaulted to the most. Sylvanas was never one to be led by assumptions and had investigated Proudmoore’s combat capacity as much as she could so she could plan around that. Fire and Arcane came as easily to the Lord Admiral as her favoured Frost, and she had it on good authority that the woman was also capable of some Light and even Elemental manipulation. 

The Archmage had been a force to be reckoned with, and that was the very reason why Sylvanas had even considered this at all.

The loss of the Champions and soldiers they had incurred from the Naga incursions, as well as the damage that the Faction War had already caused meant that they couldn’t afford to discard powerful allies as if they were nothing, even if the price she would have to pay for it would be one of the highest that had been asked of her in her unlife. Azshara would not wait forever, and what forces she had already sent forth had proven to be terrifyingly effective at devastation and at slowly but surely poking at their forces, making them bleed out slowly. All of it, no doubt, partially as a way to test their defenses and response time, but also to watch them all flag and weaken bit by bit for her own amusement.

Goddess, she couldn’t wait to turn all of them into seafood when the time came. It was the least they deserved.

Sylvanas shook her head and brought her thoughts back on track from their vengeful tangent. 

If she went ahead with her original plan and had her Val’kyr resurrect Jaina Proudmoore, they would have her power as a further weapon against the horrors of the depths. Aradne and Brynja would be gone, and so would their host of lesser Val’kyr, but letting them go would allow them all a greater chance at victory in the future. 

It was an exchange that would end up with her sacrificing something no matter what choice she made: give up the Bishops and let the Queen rise again to wreak havoc on her enemies, or keep the Bishops and then the Queen would remain out of play, losing them their biggest advantage in the coming war. 

The choice, unfortunate as it was, would affect more than just Sylvanas, even if she was the only one that would need to pay the price for it. Whether she had all five of her remaining Val’kyr with her or none at all, the only one that would notice the difference would be _her_. Having Jaina Proudmoore’s magic at their disposal, however, would make a very big difference in their battle plans and the effectiveness of their assault, and would thus be a difference that would be noticed by and would affect everyone.

When presented like that, it was clear what she should do. Sylvanas had a responsibility not only to her Forsaken, but also to the Horde overall now, to find a way forward and carve out a path that would lead towards a better and brighter future for them all. One where they could live and thrive, one where there was a tomorrow to look forward to. It was not a mantle she had ever wanted, but now that it was hers she would see her duty through to the end, no matter what. 

Even if she had to give up two of her most faithful and powerful servants in order to do so.

That being the case, there wasn’t really a choice to be made at all, was there? Her course had been set ever since Vol’jin had named her Warchief in his dying moments, and she could not indulge in selfishness when her people’s lives were at stake.

Sylvanas opened her eyes and once again faced Brynja, who still waited patiently for her instructions. 

“Bring her back, Brynja. Those were my orders before, and they are still my orders now.”

The Val’kyr nodded once and disappeared in a flap of wings, off to join Aradne in bringing back the most powerful sorceress in the world.

_I’d better not be wrong about you, Proudmoore._

_______________________

Sylvanas quietly waited and watched over her as Jaina Proudmoore slept. The woman hadn’t made her way out of the realm of the unconscious yet, though she didn’t imagine it would be much longer now. Her Val’kyr had done their job perfectly, as she knew they would. 

She hadn’t really known what to expect of the former Archmage’s new form, but it was certainly not _this_. Proudmoore made a striking Forsaken. She had always been a beautiful woman, and contrary to what would have been commonly imagined, undeath hadn’t detracted from that at all. There was, perhaps, a fiercer look to her now but that was hardly something that could be considered as ‘detracting’ from her beauty. Frost had taken over her appearance and caressed the tips of her hair, the top of her head, and small wisps surrounded her body almost playfully as they danced over her collarbones, her hands, and the tops of her knees. 

And all of it while the Lord Admiral still slept.

Sylvanas yearned to see that power unleashed in battle again, at her back and through willing agreement instead of forced by a surprise attack’s unlikely team-up. She was sure that Proudmoore would grow more and more formidable now that the limitations of humanity had been lifted from her body and she would be unleashed in a way that none in Azeroth had seen before. It would be a thing of beauty for their allies and a herald of death for their enemies. 

If she’d calculated right. 

Sylvanas grimaced and closed her eyes, unable to keep that small part of her that couldn’t bring itself to trust in anyone but herself at bay. _If I’m wrong about this…_

But the Warchief didn’t have time to have a bout of self-doubt and negativity again, for her sensitive ears finally caught a strange, deep inhale that was rather out of place in the otherwise silent room, and her gaze turned back to the newly-awakened Lich.

She saw the woman flinch and promptly sit up, taking stock of where she was as her breathing became more laboured, likely as an instinctive response to her confusion.

Sylvanas took a step forward, no longer fully melded with the shadows of the corner where she’d been waiting for Jaina Proudmoore to finally rejoin the world of the living while still remaining partially hidden.

Proudmoore was clearly able to see her, because she promptly formed an ice spear and threw it directly at Sylvanas’ head. Had she been anyone less than she was and had she not seen this coming from a mile away, the Banshee would have found herself skewered.

As it was, she simply moved her head to the side and saw the spear embed itself deep in the wall for a single moment before the part that had not pierced the stone shattered into a million little pieces. 

_Interesting._

Not wanting to be on the receiving end of more offensive magic, she stepped out of the shadows in full.

“ _Bal’a dash,_ Lady Proudmoore. I see that your magic is as strong as ever,” Sylvanas greeted the woman as she eyed the remains of the ice lance and the way it had pierced the stone of the wall by a good three inches. 

She had to bite back a soft sound of approval. For an immediate response it was not bad at all. The weapon had been crafted and thrown within the blink of an eye, obviously more an instinctive reaction to a foreign presence than anything planned or thought out, and it pleased her to see how sharp the Lich’s reflexes were.

She truly would be magnificent if she continued honing her magic now that she would not have the inconvenience of living flesh to slow her down, Sylvanas was sure of it. 

Her impossible gamble would pay off.

With that initial assessment made quickly, she continued speaking. “Had I not been anticipating such a thing, I might be pulling that out of my body as we speak.”

She did not feel remorse at failing to mention that the part of her body in question would have been her head. She would acknowledge the Archmage’s skill, but Sylvanas would never give her the satisfaction of knowing that her throw had been so precise that it would have pierced the skull of any lesser warrior cleanly. There was no point in inflating the woman’s ego.

Proudmoore said nothing for a while, those glowing blue eyes of hers seemingly lost a thousand miles from there. Sylvanas waited patiently, knowing _intimately well_ just how disorienting the experience of being brought back was at first.

_Not that I was allowed to adjust at all…a toy to do with as he wished, my will shackled and spirit made to do his whims whenever he pleased._

Sylvanas forced down an instinctive snarl and banished the thoughts from her mind. Now was not the time for that. It was never really the time for thoughts of _him_ to intrude, but especially not now when she had a young Lich for whom this new reality would soon begin to sink in.

So she waited, wondering how long it would take for Proudmoore to come back from her thoughts and for her anger to flare up in some magnificently disastrous manner. She had no hope for the staunchest Alliance supporter of them all, other than the boy-King and perhaps his mangy mutt, to have any kind of favourable reaction to her new circumstances.

It was not a question of _if_ , but of _when_. 

“You really did it.” Proudmoore surprised her by saying this once she finally returned to the present. “I didn’t think you would.”

_Interesting first thought._

“I was not going to,” Sylvanas replied pensively as she contemplated the sitting mage, wondering what she was thinking right then and there. What was going through Jaina Proudmoore’s mind? Was she taking in the differences in her body now? “Belore help me, I was not going to. This is going to be incredibly troublesome for me and bring about an avalanche of problems I do not need right to my door, but it is what it is.”

She had to fight back a snort at the _moue_ Proudmoore made at her reply. Goddess, that was funny.

“If it’s going to be oh so troublesome, why did you bother?”

Under any other circumstance, she would have at least given the Lich a raised eyebrow for that. If Proudmoore imagined some kind of sentimentality behind her decision, she was sorely mistaken. “Because you were right when you asked me to do it. You may just be able to tilt the balance enough in our favour that we’ll be able to strike a decisive blow against Azshara. We will need your strength for the coming assault. This will have great repercussions that will bring plenty of unwanted headaches for me, but it is undeniable that we stand a better chance with you here.”

“Right.” Proudmoore seemed exasperated at her answer, but honestly, what had she expected? It wasn’t as though she and Sylvanas were friends or even _allies_ when the woman had died. They had been about to _discuss_ becoming allies, and it was Proudmoore herself who had even banked on the strategic benefits to having her Raised when she’d asked it of Sylvanas. “Where am I?”

_Well, since she’s finally starting to ask questions, may as well get this out of the way._

“Temporary chambers,” Sylvanas replied, making her way over to the mirror that awaited out of sight from the bed. She didn’t expect for it to remain in one piece for long after she placed it in front of her guest. “I hadn’t anticipated hosting the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras when I attended the ceasefire, so yours are not ready yet.” There was no point in mentioning that the chambers were being readied because Sylvanas fully anticipated that said Lord Admiral would likely be living in Lordaeron for the foreseeable future. 

If the Alliance accepted Proudmoore and welcomed her without qualm, Sylvanas would eat both Deathwhisper _and_ her quiver on the spot. 

She could see that the mage was about to say something else, likely something either snarky or a jab at her, but immediately closed her mouth upon seeing the mirror Sylvanas gently placed in front of her.

As expected, Proudmoore immediately shoved off the bed and made to stand so she could examine herself. Sylvanas retreated back to her corner and waited, knowing where this would inevitably lead and determined to get it over with.

She carefully watched as the Lich catalogued the changes of her new form, blue eyes taking everything in with a sort of intrigued wonder as she looked at her own face, her hair, her hands and legs. She watched the way Proudmoore opened and closed her hands as if she had never seen them work before, the way she shifted her weight to see if her legs could withstand her weight properly still, the way she stopped breathing intentionally for long minutes without being inconvenienced by it. She watched the way those eyes lingered on the section of hair that had become pink, of all colours, and the grimace of pain that was gone almost as fast as it had appeared on the mage’s face.

And because she was observing her so very intently, she was able to see the exact moment in which the switch flipped and Proudmoore realized what she was. She saw that realization begin to sink in for the Lord Admiral, that she was no longer the woman she had been before. She could see the minute changes in expression giving way to a much more pronounced grimace, going from the initial surprise and curiosity to dawning horror as anger took hold when her new reality crashed down on her. 

Proudmoore’s jaw clenched and the tendons in her neck stood out as she continued looking at her new self, her right hand slowly curling into a fist while her left slid down the mirror’s polished surface, her nails dragging and screeching as they gouged the glass, and Sylvanas had to force down a wince at the horrible sound. 

The glow of magic began pulsing underneath the Lord Admiral’s skin, veins the colour of arcane slowly appearing on her arms and what the Banshee could see of her legs. Sylvanas still did not move from her spot, but she shifted her stance into a more defensive one, with her feet firmly planted on the ground and ready to dodge at a moment’s notice. Would Proudmoore try to attack her reflection? Attack Sylvanas herself, perhaps? Young Forsaken were usually disoriented and needed time to adjust to who they were upon awakening, but they also tended to already have frequented Forsaken while they’d been alive, in battle if nowhere else.

Proudmoore, on the other hand, distinctly held the usual Alliance view on her people that was so very typical of the supposed Followers of the Light, regarding them as vicious and evil and whatnot. She would lash out, of that Sylvanas was sure, but against whom or what? Whatever the target of the woman’s fury, the Warchief aimed to be prepared. 

She was caught off-guard when Proudmoore growled an inquiry about her new clothes.

_Of all things…_

She did not allow her tone to reflect her confusion at the question or her wariness at the way mana seemed to be ebbing and surging within the Lich at random, the veins of arcane fading in and out of view as if undecided on whether they should go or stay. Sylvanas had never seen the like before. “I thought you would not appreciate having the reminders of the battle that took your life so readily on display, so my Val’kyr cleansed you and swapped your robes before Raising you. As it was an emergency and I could not ask your opinion on this, I chose what seemed best in the moment.”

Usually there was no time for such niceties when it came to newly-Raised Forsaken, but since Proudmoore had been so difficult to bring back Sylvanas had tried for courtesy. She hadn’t even been the one to erase the signs of violence from the woman’s body personally, knowing how peculiar Humans were about being seen devoid of clothing and all of that, so she had _hoped_ her gesture would not be misunderstood. 

“How very thoughtful of you,” Proudmoore growled again, and Sylvanas forced down her own mounting exasperation.

How predictable that even with the best of intentions and with as many precautions taken as possible, her actions would be deemed as an offense of some kind by the Lord Admiral. 

Predictable but the tiniest bit disappointing anyway.

She ruthlessly shoved the thought into the depths from where it would never emerge again, instead concentrating on the unstable woman in front of her. 

Proudmoore had clearly not taken her response well, if the rumbles in her chest were anything to go by. The veins of arcane lit up fully this time, making crisscrossing lines of blue light up the woman’s body in a display that could be considered rather pretty if it wasn’t accompanied by a worrisome hum that was becoming louder and louder with every passing moment. 

Sylvanas’ eyes widened as she saw the Lich breathing in hard and then snarl at nothing, her eyes closed and the hand that had gouged the mirror closing around shattered shards of glass that should have cut into her, but there was no blood or ichor falling from the would-be wounds. Mana crackled along her body, lashing out in lines of power that the Banshee was sure would burn if anyone got close. 

Suddenly, Proudmoore’s eyes flew open and Sylvanas had only a second to catch her horrified expression before her instincts screamed at her to _move_. She threw herself to the side and then transformed into her incorporeal form, not a moment too soon, either. 

Proudmoore had lost control of herself, pure and undiluted mana exploding from her in a pillar of concentrated magic that tore straight into the ceiling, destroying anything in its path. A gigantic blizzard had taken over the room, ice raining down into every single corner of a space that was much too small to contain it and turning wood to kindling in seconds. One of the walls, the one that faced toward the courtyard, was fully obliterated by the onslaught and the others were soon to follow as frost crept all over the stone, making it groan and crack with the pressure the magic applied on contact.

Were it not for her ability to turn herself into mist, Sylvanas would have been skewered in place and likely killed from the sheer force of it. As it was, the spikes flew through her not-quite-harmlessly; she could still feel a bit of pain when the shards passed through her, and she could feel them slow just the slightest bit as they made their way through her incorporeal form. 

It was _impressive_.

On the worrying end of things, however, it was clear that this wasn’t something Proudmoore had planned and was doing to try and kill her, for the moment at least. The woman knelt in the eye of the storm, her eyes a blinding white as mana continued to pour from her like a river whose dam had broken. Sylvanas was not a mage, but she knew enough to know perfectly well what would happen if the Lich could not contain herself: Proudmoore would burn through her all of her mana, which was now directly linked to her lifeforce, killing herself _again_ and taking the entirety of Lordaeron out with her at the very least. With every second that passed the storm gained more and more strength, more and more power as it drained its caster’s life. 

As if that were not bad enough, the woman was also clawing and scrabbling at her own flesh as she tried to tear into her own chest for some Goddess-forsaken reason. Proudmoore released a horrifying _shriek_ of pain as the veins of arcane burned a blinding white, exactly like her eyes, and as her claws finally managed to rip into her ribcage fully. Sylvanas could now see _bone._

Reacting instinctively again, Sylvanas misted her way towards Proudmoore, growling and pushing back against the wall of magic that tried to prevent her from going through with all of her strength. A lesser being would have been repelled by it, but she was _Sylvanas Windrunner,_ Banshee Queen, leader of the Forsaken, and Warchief of the Horde. She’d be _damned_ if she allowed Proudmoore to kill herself and throw all of her efforts and her sacrifice in bringing the blasted woman back overboard.

It was a struggle, but she was finally able to make her way to the Lord Admiral’s side. Still, her intangibility made it impossible for her to be able to actively prevent Proudmoore from continuing to hurt herself, so Sylvanas ignored her self-preservation instincts screaming at her and changed back into her corporeal self. She gritted her teeth and ignored the ghastly pain that came from immediately being impaled by the ice spikes that continued to rain down, forcing her body to _move_ in spite of the way the air was so cold it burned her. 

She pried the mage’s hands from her chest, forcing them to the sides of the woman’s body, and then pulled Proudmoore close to her while holding firm onto her arms to prevent her from going for round two. Forcing down a hiss as more spikes made a new home for themselves in her calves, Sylvanas spoke directly into Proudmoore’s ear. “I have worked too hard and given up too much to lose you now to _this_. Pull yourself together, _Jaina_. You’re the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, former Leader of the Kirin Tor, and one of the greatest Archmages this world has seen, are you not?” 

To her surprise it seemed to actually _work,_ at least somewhat. The intensity of the blizzard decreased the tiniest bit, and she could actively _feel_ the mana storm begin to calm. 

Sylvanas took in this information quickly. _She’s reacting almost like a spooked child would. And if that is the case, what is the best way to calm a fearful creature, Human, Elven, or otherwise?_

Wondering if it could really be that simple, Sylvanas changed tactics and brought the out-of-control Lich even closer to her in a crushing embrace, her arms now going around the woman in a full-fledged hug as she placed Proudmoore’s face on the crook of her neck. Ignoring the heavy ache of her wounds and how worryingly pliable the body in her arms was, she began to sing an old lullaby that her mother had taught her long ago directly into a small, rounded ear. 

The gentle, flowing Thalassian seemed to really begin making a difference; slowly, painfully so, the unstable mana began to gentle and smooth out, being pulled back into Proudmoore little by little. The blizzard’s rage petered out at a crawl, but it was dissipating and that was what mattered. 

It took long, arduous, and agonizingly slow minutes but eventually the storm disappeared in its entirety and there were only the two of them left in the middle of the wreck and disaster that had once been a guest chamber. Still, the Warchief refused to move or stop her soft singing, afraid that one wrong move would startle the woman in her arms and restart the whole cycle anew. 

The moment didn’t last, however, as Proudmoore seemed to realize that her body was her own again and pulled herself back abruptly from their embrace. Sylvanas offered no resistance and let her go, only to find herself holding onto the mage again not five seconds later when Proudmoore gave out a strangled yell and collapsed right back into her arms. Soft tremors ran through the woman’s frame, her face twisted into a grimace of pain, and Sylvanas’ sensitive ears were just able to catch the tiniest of whimpers forming in Proudmoore’s throat.

_Ah, I see. It must hurt her to move._

The conclusion was both relieving and worrisome. It was relieving in that at least Proudmoore was still somewhat normal and hadn’t been unaffected by unleashing a miniature cataclysm in an enclosed space that had almost killed both of them. On the other hand, it was worrisome that she had _almost killed herself_ with that outburst, with the proof of it being not only in the ruined remains of the room, but also in the Lich’s inability to move without hurting. 

_A mess, all of this._ Sylvanas bit back a sigh. She needed to get them both out of there and see to those injuries, but she was unsure if repositioning Proudmoore was even a good idea to begin with. The Lord Admiral may not be able to move too much without hurting, but if Sylvanas made a wrong move or startled her, she had no doubt that the woman would aim for her head on instinct alone, exactly as she had when she’d just woken up. 

A wounded animal was just as likely to lash out as a scared one, and with Proudmoore being angry _and_ in pain, she wasn’t sure what she should expect next. 

Well, best she find out whether this would be a problem or not right away. “I see that moving is not something you are able to do just yet, but I believe it would be best if we were to leave this place for now,” Sylvanas spoke softly, still treating the Lich as if she were a spooked, feral dragonhawk. “I will call for someone to clear up this mess afterwards, but for now you should probably lie down, Lady Proudmoore.” 

She paused for the briefest of moments, snarled internally at herself for hesitating, and then continued. “Would you accept me carrying you out of here?”

“Yes,” Proudmoore croaked out her response so low that even Sylvanas strained to hear it.

Nodding, even though she knew the woman could not see her what with her eyes being closed and all, Sylvanas shifted her hold so that she could carry Proudmoore as delicately as possible, and rose from where she’d been kneeling. 

Immediately her body howled in pain due to the ice spikes that had found new homes in her arms, her shoulders, her legs, her stomach, and ribs. Sylvanas bared her teeth for a split second before letting a placid mask fall into place and forced herself to ignore the screaming torture in her limbs, daring her own body to falter as she stood to her full height and began walking out of the ruins of the bedchamber. It was a maze of frost, but the Banshee was undeterred, her stride sure and firm even as cold fire _burned_ her with every step she took. Her arms remained unmoving, refusing to jostle the woman she carried anymore than what was inevitable from the motion of her own body.

The way to her tower had never seemed as long as it did in those moments, but she finally made it to the stairway leading to her chambers. She gritted her teeth, breathing in and out slowly even though she didn’t need to in order to prepare herself for what she knew would be an even more intense world of pain. 

Sylvanas inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and began climbing.

Sheer and utter _agony_ ripped through her with a vengeance as soon as she set her weight down on her right leg again, the three spikes that had latched onto her calves _shifting_ and making a line of fire flare up from her calf straight up her spine, causing her to wobble. Sylvanas pivoted at the last moment and crashed against the wall instead of falling forward, her whole frame shaking from the impact and the spikes in her shoulder moving as they were jostled. The throbbing ache was so intense that for a moment her arms trembled and she thought she would drop Proudmoore, but she growled internally at herself and forced her body into righting itself again so she could continue going up the stairway. 

Sylvanas was not _weak_ , and she would not allow herself to falter here due to a few injuries littering her body. She was the Banshee Queen and by Belore, she would make it up those Goddess-damned stairs without falling over if it killed her. 

Steadying herself and shoving down the snarls that wanted to tear from her throat as every little movement brought with it a barrage of _hurt_ , the Warchief climbed up to her chambers, each step feeling as though she were setting her own muscles on fire from the inside. Still, she allowed no sounds to even begin to form in her chest, and her face betrayed none of the pain she felt unless one knew to look for a hint of it in her eyes. Sylvanas could be dying and she would still do her damnedest to hide it.

Leaders did not have the luxury of faltering. Leaders had to see to their people first and foremost, to care for them, to make the best decisions possible for their sake. Leaders were a source of surety and strength, pillars on which their people leaned on for comfort and the assurance of an order well-maintained. Leaders were responsible for shouldering their people’s worries and anxieties, seeing and hearing what concerns may be had, and then dealing swiftly with said worries and anxieties until whatever caused them was no more. 

Secure pillars could not have cracks, and so Sylvanas would not wince or scream or hiss, no matter how much her body may shriek at her.

It was with honest relief that she finally made it inside her bedchambers, gently depositing the Lich on her own bed and watching with no small amount of surprise and amusement as Proudmoore began squirming against the bedding and buried her face in the pillows, sensitive Elven ears catching the sound of a long inhale. 

But she was distracted from the amusingly undignified sight of the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras trying to take in her scent like a kitten that had been given catnip as she looked at the woman and realized that there were no wounds anywhere in Proudmoore’s body. Which should have been impossible, given that Sylvanas had _seen_ her tear into her own chest cavity when she lost control of her magic, clawing at herself in such a desperate and violent manner that she’d reached _bone_ before Sylvanas had managed to put a stop to her.

And yet there was no trace of injury. No ichor on her fingers, no gaping wound in her chest, no burn marks anywhere. Nothing to indicate that she had just had a magically-fuelled meltdown and almost careened herself back into death’s arms when Sylvanas had just dragged her away from them. 

Proudmoore turned to look at her, and Sylvanas immediately rearranged her expression into a small, amused smirk, ensuring that nothing of her doubts and questions would be seen on her face, but the cogs in her mind still turned as she puzzled out the answers to Proudmoore’s mysterious instant recovery.

 _My Lady,_ Sigrid’s voice interrupted her musings and she immediately left her thoughts of the Lich’s strange healing abilities behind, instead turning her attention fully onto her Val’kyr. _Please remove that which pierces your flesh so that I may heal you, lest those lances continue damaging you further._

Sylvanas forced back a grimace and acknowledged the Val’kyr’s request, moving towards an empty wastebasket near her desk so she could drop the magical projectiles in it. They still carried some of Proudmoore’s magic within them, and Sylvanas was both impressed with their construction, and relieved that she’d be able to absorb the lingering magic so as to rely a little less on Sigrid’s power. 

She was surprised to hear her guest speak up just as she was ready to begin taking out the blasted things from her shoulders. “Sylvanas…I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was…”

 _Is that_ regret _I hear in the Lord Admiral’s voice?_

She was not particularly inclined to believe in that, but one look at the woman’s face and she could see that, at the least in that very moment, Proudmoore certainly looked regretful about what she had done. She was hunched over as she sat on the bed, her shoulders drawn in, her lips twisted into a grimace, and a look of deep shame burned in her eyes that the blue glow of arcane could not hide. Also, unless her eyesight had begun to fail her, there was a bit of colour now dusting those cheeks of hers. 

“You were angry and your magic responded to that rather violently,” Sylvanas replied evenly. “I expected as much. That doesn’t make the experience pleasant, but it was not an outburst that caught me by surprise.”

And that was true. While she had been fully prepared for the Archmage to lash out in anger once the realization of her condition sank in, what had surprised her was just how _strong_ Proudmoore’s reaction had been, something she hadn’t taken into account when imagining how that scenario would play out. Neither had she been able to anticipate that Proudmoore would lose control of herself and almost blow up the entirety of Lordaeron while trying to claw her own heart out, or whatever else she’d been trying to accomplish while in the grip of rage. 

Proudmoore’s voice was full of disbelief when it reached her next. “You _expected_ me to lose control of myself and hurt you?” 

“I expected you to get angry at some point or another,” Sylvanas corrected patiently as she began ripping the spikes out of her left shoulder. It hurt like fifteen blazes, the effect of the magically-enhanced ice having spread from the initial point of impact to blacken a wide area of flesh that was now all but ruined. Yet she kept speaking evenly and refused to allow a single hint of pain to lace her tone or affect the cadence of her words. “All things considered it was the most plausible reaction you could have had, and so I fully anticipated that you would have an outburst sooner or later. Your magic’s instability is also hardly surprising, and it made sense that any rage-fuelled flare-up of yours would include volatile magical storms.”

Well, it made sense _now_ , and Sylvanas would need to keep an eye out for that in the near future, at least until the woman learned how to control her new powers and came to accept her unlife as her new normal. If this were to happen again, somewhere populated instead of an isolated chamber in a distant part of the keep… No, she refused to think of that. She would _not_ allow that to happen, even if she had to forcefully help Proudmoore calm herself every time. 

She had continued taking out the spikes and dropping them in the wastebasket as she talked, each one making her call upon every last ounce of restraint she had so she would not give into the desire to grind her teeth into dust from how much it bloody _hurt_. The spear in her abdomen and the two short blades on her ribs had been the worst of the lot, and it was only Sigrid’s soothing magic washing over her, cleaning the wounds, healing the damage, and restoring her flesh back to proper functionality that kept her from screeching out from the pain. 

It was a relief when all of them were finally _out_ and she could begin wiping at her skin, the small rag that she had snatched up for that purpose very quickly becoming soaked in a deep black.

“Tides, what have I done?”

Sylvanas’ head snapped towards the bed at the softly-murmured words, taking in Proudmoore’s horrified expression as those piercing eyes followed the drops of ichor that fell from the still-open wounds that Sigrid had not reached yet. 

“I am so sorry,” she whispered again, and this time Sylvanas was almost sure that the Lich was unaware she was even speaking aloud. She looked both lost and sickened, though by what exactly, the Warchief was still unsure. 

Heedless of her audience, the woman kept speaking idly. “Just how high is her pain threshold to have carried me with those shards tearing at her as she moved? And just how strong is she? I’m not exactly heavy, but I had a fair amount of muscle when I was alive that I think I’ve kept…and with the wounds I gave her, shouldn’t she be groaning in pain? Maybe a grimace? But her face is like a statue’s, smooth and impassive without a hint of anything being wrong at all. It’s actually a little scary…Can she even still feel things?”

Oh, she was definitely unaware that she was even talking. Wasn’t that interesting? 

Sylvanas couldn’t help herself and replied with a sarcastic, “I suppose that is something you will need to find out on your own, will it not?” coupled with a predatory grin for effect.

Her thoughts were proven correct when the Lich jumped in surprise, her eyes coming back into focus as they looked warily at her toothy grin. 

“Is she capable of reading minds?”

Taking pity on the woman, Sylvanas chuckled drily and chose to put her out of her misery. “Were that one of my abilities it would be both quite useful and amusing, but that is not the case. You are merely speaking aloud without realizing it, Lady Proudmoore.” 

The chagrined expression on her face was still quite hilarious, but Sylvanas hoped that the Lord Admiral would have more interesting things to say soon. There was information that she needed to give the woman, but she could not initiate that on her own. Proudmoore needed to be the one to reach out and ask, because she needed to be ready to understand the answers that Sylvanas would give. She needed to be the one to make the opening move of this dance.

Thus, it was with quite a bit of relief that Sylvanas welcomed her next statement. “I have questions.”

The Warchief was already nodding her assent, discarding her soaked rag and snatching up another to finish wiping at the ichor that still marred her lower body. “I imagine you do. You may ask whatever you like, and if I am capable of it, I will answer.”

Proudmoore thought about it for a moment, and then asked, “Where exactly am I? I know you said ‘temporary chambers’ before…before my outburst,” and oh, how _ashamed_ she sounded when mentioning said outburst. There was a note of clear stress on the word that piqued her interest, but now was not the time to dwell on such things, “but that still doesn’t give me an idea of where I am. Is this Orgrimmar?” 

Finally finished wiping down her body, and feeling infinitely better now that Sigrid was also healing the last of the damage left – _it’s interesting that it’s taken so much effort for her to heal this…does it have to do with Proudmoore’s magic causing interference?_ – Sylvanas leaned against the wall, assuming as non-threatening a pose as she could without being completely open and ridiculous. “It would have been much too difficult to transport you from Menethil Harbour to Orgrimmar safely without any of the Alliance noticing it, even with portals involved. It would have attracted too much attention, and that is the last thing we needed.” Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit as she spoke next, her distaste at the memory that she recalled evident in that small gesture alone. “This is Lordaeron. The reconstruction of the keep is finally starting to pick up after the little incident we had before.”

To her credit, Proudmoore made a _moue_ of distaste but said nothing about the incident, instead choosing to go to her next question. “How long ago was the Naga assault?” 

A simple enough question, but Sylvanas could read between the lines and hear what she was truly asking, _“How long have I been unconscious?”_

“Twenty-eight hours since you fell on the shores of the harbour, and thirty-six since we were supposed to have those ceasefire talks. We are still trying to account for everyone that was killed during the battle, tallying the dead, preparing the funerals…”

She trailed off, unsure of how to word the next part of what had happened. It wasn’t as though she had much experience in turning Alliance leaders into Forsaken, and there really wasn’t a delicate way to phrase that she had been declared dead in combat by the Alliance heralds according to Cyndia’s last report. At the same time she was pragmatic, not heartless, and she did not want to cause Proudmoore any more distress than was strictly necessary so she hesitated on how best to deliver the news.

Thankfully, Proudmoore proved to be capable of reading between the lines as well and tackled the subject herself. “The Alliance thinks I’m dead, don’t they?”

“They’re not wrong to think so. You _are_ dead, Lady Proudmoore.”

“I’m aware of that, _Warchief._ ” A withering glare and a sharp retort were the replies to her statement, and Sylvanas had to bite back the desire to smirk at her in return. The Lich’s temper was quite amusing, the venom with which she had laced her title a rather entertaining addition, at least so long as she was not pairing it with destructive magic at the same time. The reminder of the mana storm was enough to kill her amusement stone cold. “I may be dead but I am not _gone,_ and _that_ is an important distinction to be made.”

Sylvanas simply nodded and looked at the woman intently, her burning gaze taking in every detail of Proudmoore’s countenance. She couldn’t help but wonder what was going through the Lich’s mind, what her thoughts were regarding her new status with the Alliance, and what she intended to do about it all. This was something in which Sylvanas herself could not really help or give an opinion on, as no matter what choice the woman took, it would be the wrong one regardless of intent.

If Proudmoore revealed herself instantly, there was absolutely no chance in hell that those vapid fools would not manage to trample on her frail hold over her temper. Accusations and disbelief would meet anything Proudmoore would say to try and convince them that this had been her own decision, though that would be the case no matter what or when they presented the situation before them. The rejection would be immediate and merciless, and without having had the time to get a grasp on her own magic, it was highly plausible that the hurt of that rejection coupled with the confusion and general instability that being a young Forsaken brought with it would lead the Lord Admiral to lose control of herself again and do something that they would all regret. 

Sylvanas could see it all playing out in her mind’s eye already. Proudmoore trying to talk to the Alliance leaders and explain her circumstances only for them to be unable to see past the woman’s new condition and shutting her down, claiming that she was no longer the Jaina they knew and had been ‘corrupted by the taint of undeath’. They would throw all manner of vile insults her way, and depending which of the xenophobes had the floor in that moment, some may even call for her to be imprisoned or killed before she could be used against them. 

Being rejected out of hand in such a violent and unrelenting way would be akin to blows thrown directly into the Lich’s heart. That hurt would be fuel to the fire of the anger that simmered underneath the skin of every and all Forsaken, adding onto the disorientation that came with being newly Risen. She would grow furious and lash out in distress, sadness, and anger, likely loosening her hold over her magic and giving a pretty demonstration of why it was a bad idea to upset powerful Liches to the gathered leaders.

And then it would all go to hell.

Greymane would immediately see this as proof of Proudmoore being a weapon in disguise sent by Sylvanas to try and assassinate them all, or at the very least of having concocted and enacted a plot to murder the little lion they called their High King. Whisperwind would _helpfully_ agree with him and call for the Alliance to rally and not rest until they had Sylvanas’ head on a platter, for their armies to march on the Horde so they could stamp them out once and for all. Katherine Proudmoore would also cast her vote in that direction, undoubtedly saying that ‘the Banshee’ made her daughter’s corpse into a bomb just waiting to explode on them to add insult to injury, and then more likely than not also saying something along the lines of Proudmoore no longer being the daughter she knew or whatever other prejudiced drivel would form in her mind. 

With three, maybe four depending on how Wrynn’s cub took to Proudmoore, of their leaders advocating for renewed hostilities against the Horde, the others would fall in line easily enough and the elder Proudmoore’s desire to rain down revenge and retribution in the shape of cannon fire and clashing swords would be met sooner rather than later. Sylvanas and her Horde would have to defend themselves, the Faction War would start again, and Azshara would laugh and laugh from the depths as she waited for them to tire themselves out only to swoop in when they had finished breaking one another beyond repair.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Except, waiting for Proudmoore to get a decent grasp on her magic was far from an ideal situation either. If the Alliance mourned their Lord Admiral, held her funeral, payed their respects, and were told some time down the line that the woman was dead, but not the way they thought her to be, it would be chaos as well. They would accuse Sylvanas of having hidden Proudmoore away on purpose to do…Goddess knew exactly what. The mongrels actually believed that Sylvanas was an iron-fisted tyrant that ruled through fear, so she wouldn’t put it past them to think that she’d possess Proudmoore’s body and go to a meeting with them only to murder them all once they were gathered in one room or something equally outrageous. 

The scenario would play very much like the previous one, except this time they would have “proof” in that Sylvanas would have waited to show them Proudmoore was an undead, – she could just hear the accusations of _“if you have nothing to hide, then why did you wait!”_ already – and that alone would be enough in their minds to justify calling for a renewed war. There would never be a good enough reason for whatever action she took, and anything she said would immediately be dismissed or shot down as a lie to lull the Alliance leadership into a false sense of security so she could strike when they least expected it. If Proudmoore tried to reason with them, they would dismiss _her_ out of hand by claiming that she was clearly brainwashed, her will shackled, and her mind trapped behind whatever machinations the ‘Evil Banshee’ had in store for them. 

There was simply no winning with those people. Their bigotry and narrow-mindedness ran so deep that merely because of her status as an undead she and her people had been deemed monsters by them. They would do the same with Proudmoore no matter what happened, and the fallout of this would be disastrous either way.

 _Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._ Sylvanas bit back a tired sigh and forced herself not to rub at her eyes like she wanted just to give some outlet to her frustration. She was _not_ looking forward to either option unfolding, but she knew she needed to prepare for one scenario or the other regardless of what she may want.

“It’s for the best that they think so right now. I don’t believe we should change that yet.”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows and ears jumped up in surprise, broken out of her analysis of what awaited in the very near future by Proudmoore’s voice. When the words actually registered, she had to swallow down her exasperation to prevent it from showing in her voice. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to the Alliance?”

“Not right now. I will speak with them soon, but not…not yet.”

“And why is it that you think it would be a good idea to hide from your own faction?” It took all of her willpower to not make at least five of the sarcastic remarks she wanted to in response to that and keep her tone neutral, but if Proudmoore’s face was anything to go by, something had given away a bit of the irritation she felt anyway.

“I need to figure out what to say to them so that they’ll understand my choice, Sylvanas.” Proudmoore sighed, clearly doing her best to try and rein in her still-volatile temper. _Good._ “I am not foolish enough to believe that they will simply take it at face value if I say I asked you for this, even if I explained my reasoning to them.”

 _Clearly you are foolish enough to believe that they’ll be willing to listen at all._

Her teeth ached with how hard she was clenching her jaw so as to not say those words. She burned to say them, oh how she burned to say them, but she forced herself to do little more than simply shake her head and try to contain her exasperation. “You don’t think ahead enough, Lady Proudmoore. Your precious Alliance will see this as deception on my part. They will think I have been purposefully hiding you and keeping you away from them as part of whatever scheme I would have concocted in their minds.” She barely held in a scoff. “Further proof that I had nothing but the worst of intentions when Raising you.”

“No. I will make them see that that is not the case.” Proudmoore’s jaw was clenched as well, her posture and expression fully that of the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras. “They will listen to me. I _know_ they will.”

 _You’re wrong._ Sylvanas thought but didn’t say aloud. It was pointless arguing with the woman when she was still blinded by the so-called ‘righteousness’ of her precious Alliance. There was no way Proudmoore would see things her way, not just yet, and so Sylvanas would wait until her supposed _loved ones_ betrayed her without giving her a chance to explain herself or prove the truth of her words to try and make her see. 

Proudmoore would come around to her point of view one way or the other. The Alliance were _that_ predictable.

In her mind’s eye, a flash of both sun-gold and moonlight-coloured hair as well as playful blue eyes appeared suddenly. And just as with every time that the images of Alleria and Vereesa filtered unwanted into her mind, she banished them without a second thought. 

Still… Sylvanas exhaled sharply, cutting herself off before giving out an actual sigh, and closed her eyes briefly before boring them into Proudmoore’s stubborn blues. “Regardless of whether they will or not, there is one reason why I agree with your…” idea? Assumption? Decision? _Foolishness._ “…plan.”

“What reason is that?”

Sylvanas ignored the snippy tone and carried on. “Your magic being unstable is not a coincidence, Lady Proudmoore. It will continue to be so until you can acclimate to being a Forsaken and have accepted your new unlife.”

Surprise etched itself clearly on the Lich’s face at that. “Is that why you said you had expected me to get angry at some point or another?” 

“That is the reason, yes. A period of adjustment is necessary for everyone who is Raised, but it is more…demanding if the individual in question is at war with what they are.”

“I-I see.”

Proudmoore fell silent at that, visibly lost in her own thoughts as her face went on a journey that telegraphed what direction they were taking. Confusion gave way to distaste, distaste morphed into weariness, weariness became resignation, and finally resignation turned to determination before the woman raised her gaze again and made their eyes meet. 

“How long does this adjustment period usually take?” The question was laced with steel, the determination that had taken residence in Proudmoore’s eyes clearly stating that whatever timeframe Sylvanas gave her, she would endeavour to best it by even the smallest margin and then some.

That competitiveness and drive were things that Sylvanas herself possessed, and they were good qualities for a leader to have. She had seen them when Proudmoore had first asked to be Raised, when she had laid out her martyr complex before Sylvanas and practically demanded a chance to redeem herself from her supposed failures. It was something that she could respect in the Lich, but this was not a situation that could be so easily conquered.

Becoming a member of the Forsaken required a very strong will coupled with immense inner strength. Their unlife was not easy by any measure of the word, even if the newer members had never had the experience of having their free will ripped away from them, made into slavering monsters that were made to commit the vilest acts in the name of a petty, _bastard_ manchild, or had to suffer through the aftermath of his curse tormenting them every moment of every day. It was still necessary for all of them to come to a genuine acceptance of the new self, to find it in themselves to carve out a measure of inner peace that was incredibly difficult to find given that their condition naturally lent itself towards a proclivity for rage, resentment, bitterness, and regret. 

Being a Forsaken was not for the fainthearted who, when awoken, would give into fits of mindless fury and lose themselves in that since it was much easier than fighting through the initial confusion, disorientation, fear, and ire that the initial acclimation period brought with it. It required a disciplined mind and a strong heart to be able to achieve a good balance and find one’s footing in their new unlife, to find a meaning and purpose again after having walked through the valley of death and made it back _different._ It was, truly, a triumph of the will when acceptance was finally reached, for it was hard-fought and every inch of it was earned with tremendous effort.

That was not something that could be forced or barrelled through with brute force. It was a battle of the mind and not the body, and if the starting point was already adverse to the condition to begin with…

“It varies from person to person. Some take more time to acclimate than others; some are angry, just as you were, and some take rather well to this unlife. In your case, I was fully expecting the outburst given your _opinions_ on my people before you died as well as the general…‘outlook’ that the Alliance overall has on us.” Sylvanas replied neutrally, though her mind whirled with all of those thoughts and she wondered, not for the last time, if she had really made the right decision in giving into what Proudmoore had wanted. “You may have asked for this, but it would have been impossible for you to not think ‘what manner of creature am I now?’ after seeing yourself for the first time and realizing that you yourself are now ‘one of those creatures’.”

She doubted the woman would devolve into a mindless ghoul or anything of the sort, but having a perpetually unstable, ridiculously powerful Lich amidst her people would prove perhaps just as bad as that. Her eyes hardened and she had to prevent a grimace from giving away her doubts as she finished her explanation, though her right ear did give a little annoyed twitch that she wasn’t quite able to contain. 

She genuinely hoped that the Lord Admiral would be able to find it in herself to understand the true meaning of being Forsaken and come to accept her new condition without further incidents, for everyone’s sakes.

Proudmoore remained silent for a long moment, looking at her with sparks practically flying out of her eyes. Were Sylvanas not intimately familiar with how unsteady everything was during the first few weeks after being awakened for the first time she would take it personally and wonder what it was that she had said this time to incense the woman. But she _was_ familiar with that instability and so she simply waited until Proudmoore got whatever was on her mind sorted out and translated it into words.

She could have never anticipated what the next line of questioning would be even if she had tried. 

“For all that I can see you judging me due to my perspective on this,” _She thinks I was judging her? Of course she does._ “I can’t imagine that _you_ were exactly thrilled to find yourself being brought into unlife, Warchief. What was _your_ awakening like?” 

The question took her by surprise, even though it probably shouldn’t have. Saying that it was _unpleasant_ for Sylvanas to think back on when she’d been murdered and forcefully brought back from the entrance to the Goddess’ domain in order to be made to serve that godless, power-hungry, _vile_ wretch was being far too generous. The rage and grief that had been ignited within her on that day still burned brightly underneath her layers of control and the self-imposed restraints on her own temper. It was impossible to keep them at bay whenever the wound that had never healed and never would heal was pressed upon. 

It was a story that all Forsaken knew in some way or another, with most only having the broad strokes version, while those who had been with her from Before, her Rangers, knew most of the details since they had lived it as well. Even so, there were things that Sylvanas alone had been made to experience and she was glad for it only in the sense that those petty vengeances had not been wreaked upon her Rangers as well. 

And now…now Jaina Proudmoore was asking to know just how exactly it had gone for her. What her awakening had been like. Sylvanas narrowed her eyes dangerously, wondering what exactly the woman’s intention was by asking that question. It was common knowledge that Sylvanas had become a Banshee after having died defending Silvermoon, and that was as far as anyone from the Alliance had cared to understand about the circumstances of her becoming undead. This sudden desire of Proudmoore’s to find out more left her suspicious and more than a little bit on edge.

 _Or perhaps she is asking because she wants a frame of reference,_ her mind whispered. _She is only hours old and confused. It’s only natural to want to find out more, to see if her experience is unique or relatable. She is probably looking for some sort of comfort in understanding more about the conditions under which we became who we are now._

Well, if what Proudmoore was looking for was relatability and comfort she would certainly not find it in Sylvanas’ first few months as a Forsaken.

She took in the Lich’s faltering expression, the way her hand began twitching lightly as if she were trying to prevent herself from fidgeting, the way her eyes lowered and she became more and more uncomfortable under the weight of her stare, as if realizing that she had treaded into dangerous ground but wasn’t sure how to get herself out of it now. From that alone it was obvious that there had been no ill intent behind the question, and Proudmoore had really just wanted to know what it had been like for Sylvanas to find herself being an undead. It was still an incredibly raw spot for Sylvanas, but that was hardly something that Proudmoore could be aware of, precisely since she had no knowledge of what it was she had asked or how much it still hurt and always would.

Cursing internally, Sylvanas decided to answer honestly. “My ‘experience’ was rather different from yours. I had been fighting for my kingdom, for my people, for days on end. I had seen the forests I had patrolled and guarded since I was young be obliterated and corrupted by the advance of the Scourge. An advance we couldn’t stop, no matter how hard we fought or what tactics we used. An army that needed no rest, no food, and that cared little of how many we sent to meet True Death marched endlessly forward, further and further into our territory.” 

The memory of that day and all of those that came immediately after were imprinted firmly and vividly into her brain, images that she wished she could forget but was cursed to recall with crystal clear perfection for the remainder of her unlife. Her body tensed instinctively and her ears jumped up, fully alert and registering the smallest of sounds surrounding them now as all of her senses entered into battle mode without her realizing it. “I had seen my comrades, Mages and Warriors, Priests and Rangers alike, being taken from their eternal rest in the arms of the Goddess and forced to fight against us.” 

So many of her comrades in arms, people that she had fought beside for centuries were lost that day, their bodies puppeteered and made to fight for the one they had died trying to stop. “Every one of us that fell simply bolstered the ranks of the dead, and though the Outer Gates had been overrun and many of my forces had died in our attempt to defend it, we had hoped that the Inner Gate would be the salvation of our people.” How very naïve of them to have thought that _he_ wouldn’t have found a way to compromise that as well. They had been all been younger then, and had believed fully in their people’s strength, that they could overcome the odds that they had been pitted against even when everything said they couldn’t. A growl rumbled deep in her chest. “Even as I hoped and prayed that the shields would hold, I still ordered the bridge leading to the second gate be destroyed, that the Scourge may no longer be able to cross the sacred river that was another of our countermeasures against invaders. I took no chances, because I had seen the devastation they could bring, and I wanted none of them near Silvermoon.”

“We were optimistic fools. The bridge may have been gone, but a little thing like that wouldn’t stop _him_ from getting what he wanted.” Her heartbreak and mounting fury finally managed to break through the careful control she maintained over her temper, and she snarled as she recalled the moment she had realized her plans had failed and there was no stopping the tide of undead that was poised to swallow them whole and drown them. “He ordered his lesser minions to form a _bridge of corpses_ so that they could cross. The Inner Gate remained, but it was compromised by treachery, and so it fell as well. _Ban’dinoriel,_ the impenetrable shield that had protected Silvermoon ever since its founding, was shattered when the keystones that powered it were stolen and destroyed, and thus the defenses that had held together for over six thousand years were rendered futile in two days’ time.”

The rage she felt within howled to be let out, yearning to be unleashed as her mind brought forth the image of the smug _traitor_ that had been the true cause of their defeat. She would forever regret not having been able to murder Dar’Khan Drathir before he could give up the location of the Keystones to _him_ , opening the doors for the Scourge to ravage Silvermoon and bring about the High Elves’ demise.

“ _My_ awakening was to be torn from the entrance to Belore’s Hunting Fields. With my army having joined _his_ ranks after they had all been slaughtered and nothing but the very best, bravest, and last of my Rangers left, we chose to make a final stand against that godless _bastard_ in a village just before the capital.” Her eyes _burned_ with the intensity of her feelings, boring straight into Proudmoore’s shocked blues as she continued speaking. “It was clear to us by then that none of our runners had made it to Silvermoon and no reinforcements would arrive, as the Magisters had their orders to remain within the city unless sent for. They were to protect our people and the Sunwell at the cost of their own lives if we were to fall, and under no circumstance other than an emergency summons from the Ranger-General would they leave their posts.”

And since none of the runners had even made it to the city gates, the Magisters had had no way of knowing that those emergency summons were being made. To this day she wondered if the Magisters would have made a difference and their magic coupled with the skill of her Rangers would have been enough to repel the Scourge, or if they would have been slaughtered the same and then made to turn their might on Silvermoon as well. Questions that tormented her whenever she thought back on the darkest day of her existence, turning round and round in her head until she felt she would go mad from it.

“Of course, we fell, and no one was the wiser to it until it was too late. My Rangers were killed one by one by his servants, while he made a beeline for me and left me half-dead after our ensuing battle.” Pure bitterness was in her voice as she recounted the events, the pain she had felt as each and every one of her remaining unit were murdered one after the other still as fresh as ever and hurting her more than the blows she herself had received as she fought the manchild. “I demanded a clean death, which was what I deserved after the life I had led, and for a moment I saw the lands where my people are meant to go when we die, but he plunged Frostmourne into my chest and tore my soul from my body, ripping me away from my rightful place and pulling me back into an unlife of eternal torment as a ‘reward’ for everything I had put him through.”

That had been the worst of it. She was already halfway dead, halfway into the warmth of the Goddess’ arms when he had ripped her right back into this wretched world and cursed her so much that she would never recover from it even after his own True Death. 

“I was made his _slave_ to serve at his whim, unable to defy him or do anything that was not a direct order, but he was not content with that. Oh no, as another ‘gift’ he ‘allowed’ me to keep my conscience, so that I would _see_ what he would force me to do in his name as I beat at the inside of my own mind. So that I would be aware of every single one of the murders he made me commit for him. So that I would _suffer_ even more as he used me, turned me into a weapon against the very people I had died defending. So that I would ‘pay the price’ of having defied him, and he laughed and laughed while doing it.”

His words, his _laughter,_ as he ordered her to go against every single one of the oaths she had taken in life still rang in her ears. His mocking, sickly-sweet tone as he gloated over his impending victory and casually accused her of being the reason for his upcoming retribution against her people were burned permanently in her mind, and the beginnings of a Wail threatened to escape her as the rage, despair, and helplessness she had felt in those moments slammed into her in full force once more. She forced it down through an incredible exertion of will, but she was unable to contain the growls that the memory still produced so many years later. 

It was with effort that she kept recounting those first few days, her voice low and dangerous with the force of her emotions even as she struggled to keep what little remained of her control. Her hands clenched into fists, and she could feel the talons of her gauntlets digging past the leather and directly into her flesh. The fresh bloom of pain centred her a little and allowed her to keep going. “He demanded submission from my people so that he could defile our most sacred site unhindered by further resistance. My people refused and tried to fight back valiantly, so he brought me out.”

Her register deepened and adopted the same mocking, snide edge that haunted the worst of her nightmares as she repeated the warning that had greeted her people when they had first denied the bastard free passage through the city. “‘Your precious Ranger-General, who so foolishly defied me, is now my puppet to do with as I wish. Will you all follow in her steps, or will you choose wisely?’”

“Those were the words that greeted the last remaining defenders of Silvermoon, my brave people who did not falter in the face of what he had done.” Pride entered Sylvanas’ voice at that, pride in her people’s bravery, the indomitability of their spirits and how they refused to be broken even in the face of the horrors that bastard had brought to their doorstep. She had been, and continued to be, proud of the defiance with which they met his advance, how the futility of their circumstances still would not cow them and they kept fighting until there was no one left to bear arms. “I could see the shock, the heartbreak, the _fear and revulsion_ they felt when they saw what he’d made of me, but they still chose to fight him. They knew it was pointless, but they fought to the bitter end.”

But that in itself was not enough to eclipse the pain that came back with a vengeance as she was thrust once again into the heart of her people’s massacre, as she saw _herself_ taking part in that. She could see herself snuffing out the lives of the bakers she had greeted by name and who would happily offer her unit free treats whenever they stopped by, of the stablemasters that were responsible for overseeing their horses and whose families were all known to her from their stories as they talked amongst themselves and with the various Rangers that lingered to spend time with their mounts. She remembered being made to wreak _his_ revenge on any and all who dared resist, destroying citizens and buildings alike without the ability to stop herself even though she had screamed and cried for each and every one of them on the inside of her own mind. But her will, like all of the others, had not been her own, and she had been forced to watch as her own hands were stained with the blood of the people she had sworn to protect.

It sickened her still, and she would carry that burden long after she died for the last time.

Silvermoon City, capital of the High Elven Kingdom, was in ruins before the sun had set on that day. The great golden spires that had previously seemed to try and pierce the sky were nothing but rubble, with Farstriders’ Square and the Court of the Sun especially having been reduced to less than ash in the wake of the Scourge’s passing.

Her fingers tightened so hard that her nails fully pierced skin, making ichor flow from the freshly-opened wounds. “Those that didn’t flee stood their ground, and they were slaughtered for it. I had hoped that Quel’Danas would be safe, but I learned that day that hope was for children and fools, for he easily froze the water of the ocean that separated the sacred island from the rest of the kingdom and easily marched toward the Sunwell.”

She would never forget when the bastard had given the lie to her words that he would never be able to reach the island. The strength of the ocean’s currents had been too much for him to try his trick of making a corpse bridge again, and Sylvanas had believed for one bright, hopeful minute that he would be frustrated in his desire to make it to Quel’Danas. But no, he had plunged his thrice-damned runeblade into the waters and made a path of frost that had allowed him and his minions passage anyway.

That had been the moment in which their fate was truly sealed.

“There he met King Anasterian, and though he fought valiantly, our King also fell before that damnable blade.” She had felt more rage than she thought possible when Felo’melorn had been bested and shattered by Frostmourne’s power and her King had fallen as well. She and Anasterian hadn’t seen eye to eye in everything, but he had been a good ruler and done his best to maintain the peace during times of great hardship for the Elves. Seeing him being murdered was the last nail in the coffin of the hope for her people being hammered in, and she had cursed at Arthas with everything she possessed in her, to the bastard’s great amusement. “The Sunwell was defiled, the kingdom lay in ruins, and my people were barely hanging on by a thread.”

She gave her captive audience a sarcastic, bitter smile that was all teeth, and finished her tale. “ _That,_ Lady Proudmoore, was my awakening.”

Even though she’d addressed the woman that had started her on the hellish path down memory lane, Sylvanas couldn’t really see her or anything else. She was lost in the torment of those early days before she had managed to break free from the Lich King’s grasp, of all the things she had been made to do and all of his taunts, his whispers as they frayed at the edges of her mind. She was lost in her grief and sorrow, the accompanying _rage_ a feeling so familiar that she hadn’t even noticed she was trembling again. Her Banshee self thrashed and shrieked within her, wanting to be set free, wanting to let her regrets and fury out in a Wail that would be heard to the ends of Azeroth itself. 

It was too much.

Just before she could fully spiral, a voice broke through her despair. A voice she had not heard for over two hundred years and that made a strange mix of pain and relief bloom in her chest, forcefully pausing her anguished thoughts.

 _“Clear your mind, Sylvanas,_ the voice spoke gently but firmly, cloaked in an authority that could not hide the edge of concern that it held as well. _“An enemy gone is one that cannot hurt you anymore unless you let it. Do not linger on the memory and do not think of what may have happened. You are alive, in the here and now, and there are more battles to be fought, more enemies that must be defeated by your arrows or blades. You have people that are counting on you to lead them well, to find a path to victory for them. So pick yourself up and_ fight _. You can process it all later, while Liadrin chews you out for coming back injured again if need be, but hesitation on the battlefield means death, my daughter. Do not hesitate and do not falter. I have faith that you will be able to do what is right.”_

Sylvanas closed her eyes as Lireesa Windrunner’s voice faded back into the recesses of her mind but her advice remained and brought clarity along with it. She took a deep breath more out of habit than anything else and reminded herself that the petty bastard was gone. Dead and not even buried, mourned by none, and his spirit suffering in the Realm of Anguish into which he had cursed all of them to join him once they were to meet True Death just as he had.

He was dead and she was not. He would haunt her for the rest of eternity, but he could no longer hurt her unless she let him, and she did not have time to dwell on him anyway. Just as before, she had a people to lead and battles to be fought, enemies that needed to be felled. 

_He cannot hurt me anymore unless I let him,_ Sylvanas reminded herself again. _Thank you,_ Minn’da.

Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Sylvanas would have sworn in that moment that she could feel a strong, sure hand gently caressing her jaw just as it had all those centuries ago after she’d first heeded her mother’s advice and picked herself up after her first real brush with death. Lireesa’s deep blue eyes had twinkled proudly at her as she composed herself then, and the memory of that gave her the strength to shake herself off and return to the present, where she was needed. 

Having fully regained control of herself, Sylvanas opened her eyes once more and took in the scene in front of her. 

She was surprised to find Proudmoore crying, a look of despair and utter helplessness twisting her fair face into a picture of pure anguish. Clearly Sylvanas hadn’t been the only one that had become lost in her own thoughts as the glow in her eyes had dimmed and her gaze was unfocused, her chest heaving as though she were hyperventilating, an absurd concept given their lack of need for air. Her hands were clenched tightly onto her arms, and from what Sylvanas could see they had dug into the flesh there with such strength that they were on the verge of breaking skin. 

“I am so sorry.” Her voice was a brittle and half-broken whisper, her words drenched in a sadness and horror that were so clear it would have taken a deaf person to miss them. “Sylvanas, I-I am so sorry.”

The spectacle was so _bizarre_ that Sylvanas couldn’t help but laugh.

She was discussing her history with _Jaina Proudmoore,_ Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, fiercest Alliance defender in existence, and newly awakened Lich of the Forsaken. The situation was so ridiculous that it really was the only thing she could do. She gave herself over to it and laughed at the strangeness and absurdity of it all, disbelief mingling with something else that she couldn’t quite name, but there was a distinct sense of relief when Proudmoore’s eyes snapped right back to her and the woman’s anguish was replaced with confusion and a hint of caution, looking for the unlife of her as though she was afraid that Sylvanas had lost her head. 

And why wouldn’t she? It wasn’t as though there had been anything humorous in the story she had just told her, and Sylvanas herself wasn’t entirely too sure what had prompted her to laugh as a reaction. Perhaps it was the tension of the moment having reached a breaking point in which the only thing left was either laughing or crying. Perhaps it was because she was unused to any kind of sympathy, not that she had any use for it, and seeing Proudmoore react with undiluted horror at her recollection of the events that had led to her death instead of with mockery or by calling her a liar had been such an unexpected thing that it had startled her into laughter. 

Maybe the situation was just that nonsensical and it was the appropriate response, but whatever the case may have been, her laughter had vanished the shadows that her memories had brought forth, and that was for the best. There was no point becoming lost in a past that could not be changed no matter how much they may think on it. She was needed, _they_ were needed, here, in the present, and there were more important things to attend to rather than reopening old wounds for no reason at all.

“You couldn’t have known the details, Lady Proudmoore,” Sylvanas said, a renewed sense of calm having returned to her after her mother’s advice had reminded her of where her priorities lay. “But yes, that was my awakening, and for many of my people it was the same. After the Val’kyr joined me, I ensured that it would never be the same for any new Forsaken.”

Red eyes met blue as she spoke, with the Banshee giving only the slightest tilt of her head in her direction as an indication of what she meant, but Proudmoore proved to be adept at catching the hint once again and understanding dawned on her face. 

“That’s why you brought me here and laid me down in bed.” Her voice was filled with a muted kind of wonder that would have been unexpected in anyone else. “That’s why you gave me clean clothes and why you were waiting, even though you have other things you should undoubtedly be doing.”

Sylvanas said nothing, only giving the woman a small nod in acknowledgement of that statement, and watched as Proudmoore’s highly expressive face once again went on a journey of emotions that were announced bright and clear to any who would look.

Shame was the predominant feeling on display, but there were also flashes of shock, doubt, disbelief, regret, curiosity, and pain, and Sylvanas couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was going through the Lich’s mind at the moment. 

Was it truly so surprising to her that Sylvanas could show concern and kindness? Or was she thinking of something else? It wouldn’t be unexpected for her mind to have latched onto a strange tangent and made her thoughts veer in a completely different direction than what they’d been speaking of right then. Listlessness and being easily confused were very common symptoms of the newly-Risen.

Sylvanas softened slightly and decided it was time to get them back on track. “Any other questions you may have? You really haven’t asked much yet, and only one was essential.”

“How do Forsaken sustain themselves? There is magic that preserves the body from decaying further and experiencing true death unless killed, but there has to be something that fuels that, doesn’t it?”

“Very good question, and an important one at that. There is a variety of ways that we can sustain ourselves, but most prefer to simply eat and allow that to replenish their strength.”

Proudmoore blinked owlishly at her for a moment, as if what she’d just said made no sense. “I thought Forsaken didn’t need to eat or sleep?”

Sylvanas couldn’t help but chuff at that. It was always amusing to encounter the preconceptions of the living before schooling them in the realities of undeath. “It is on a need-to-do basis, Lady Proudmoore. Forsaken don’t need to eat, sleep, or drink in the way living races do, but we do need to have some form of sustenance to heal our bodies and keep the magic that preserves us functioning. Food is one way to do that. Another, and a more efficient manner actually, would be to consume mana directly through those mana foods that you mages are able to conjure.” 

She refrained from mentioning that other ways of obtaining sustenance and to heal were actually in line with the more _‘distasteful’_ ideas that the living had of them. Devouring corpses, draining the lifeforce of creatures, and other necromantic methods for restoration were options that some Forsaken chose to make use of, but she did not imagine that giving that kind of information to Proudmoore would do much good at the moment given her still-delicate sensibilities. Once she actually came to see the Forsaken as a people instead of ‘vile creatures’ perhaps she would be able to be privy to more of their culture. Eventually. 

Slowly but surely helping her acclimate without too many shocks at once would do just fine for now.

“So what you’re telling me is that as long as there are mages around, the Forsaken will _never_ go, uh, ‘hungry’ even if there is scarcity and food shortages?”

Sylvanas nodded again, pleased once more with how quick on the uptake the Lord Admiral was proving. It was refreshing to have someone newly-Raised that could keep up relatively well, there weren’t enough people like that. “Correct. It’s not the best in terms of taste variety, since from what I know all mana foods are sweet, but it _is_ the most efficient way to regain our strength.”

A look of complete astonishment took over Proudmoore’s face and she looked at Sylvanas as though she had sprouted two extra heads. “’Not the best in terms of taste variety’? Forsaken can…Forsaken can _taste things?_ ” 

“…” Sylvanas gave a short, sharp exhale. She had seen the question coming and yet it still was a bit too close to a sore spot for her liking. 

“It…varies.” _Wildly, depending on the type of Forsaken, the state they were in when Raised, whether they are cursed or not._ “Some can taste more than others. Some can even get drunk still. Our bodies do not function like those of the living, but there are…echoes…that remain of when we were alive. Although it is not necessary unless the need to heal is pressing or if one begins to feel a little weaker and fainter, many choose to eat simply because they still enjoy the taste of food and drink. Not everything is driven by necessity with us, but it is so in the battlefield, which is why you wouldn’t have known about this before.”

Her jaw clenched and her eyes burned a bright crimson with conviction as she continued. “For you specifically, I cannot say exactly how much you will be able to taste compared to when you were alive, but I can assure you that you _will_ be able to taste things. All of your senses should still be there and functional, just muted somewhat by the veil of undeath.”

Proudmoore did not look particularly convinced. “I- How are you so sure of this?”

Sylvanas bit back a sigh. “You are a second-generation Forsaken. They are the ones that have retained most of their senses and who are closer to their living selves than the rest of us.”

“Second…generation…” The confusion was back, and in any other circumstance Sylvanas would have thought it amusing just how often she was able to surprise the Lich with new tidbits of information. “How did the classification come about?”

Sylvanas closed her eyes and mustered her will to remain on track instead of becoming distracted by the pain the distinctions between her people still caused her. It truly was a sore subject for her, but she couldn’t fault Proudmoore for wanting to know more. It was actually a good thing that she was showing interest, so she tried to put all of her focus on that as she answered.

“First-generation Forsaken are the original. Those of us that were Raised in _his_ service, as part of the Scourge. We were only lackeys that he could use and abuse to his will, bodies to throw at whomever would stand in his way. He didn’t exactly care much about the state we were in when he brought us back. There was also the fact that Frostmourne was a powerful, _cursed_ runeblade. There were things that could be achieved with that power that would have been impossible otherwise.”

At those words, something in the Lord Admiral’s eyes shifted and a strange sort of… _dread?_ filled her face. 

Was Proudmoore afraid _for_ her? Surely not.

But in the next moment, Proudmoore gave the lie to her thoughts as her, “What did he do to you?” was barely above a whisper, and her tone was both haunted and dismayed.

She could reflect on that later, but for now…“Banshees are incorporeal beings that he fashioned to be as useful to him as possible, imbued with special abilities that couldn’t be granted to anyone else. As souls separated from our physical selves, our bodies, we were fairly unique and he used that to his full advantage.” Possession, magical disruption of various sorts, intangibility with resistance to most magics and spells as well as limited flight while in that mode, the Wail, etc. “As for the bodies, he locked mine away in an iron coffin sealed with powerful magic to ensure I would not be able to ever get it back, but he was a paranoid bastard. In case I managed to somehow break his hold over me and recover it, he made sure I would be denied as many mundane pleasures as he could think of.”

His taunts would remain etched on the inside of her mind forever. Cursing her body to be perfectly preserved only to throw it in a meat wagon with the rest of the garbage that he collected in them just for the sake of seeing her rage at him, and once he was bored of her screeching, pulling it out and sealing it away where he believed she would never be able to get to it. He had believed himself invincible then, but _just in case_ , he chose to continue placing curses upon curses on her, likely because it was amusing for him to continuously desecrate her body and hearing her powerless ire find no way to express itself other than her continuous screaming all manner of obscenities at him. He had made her suffer an innumerable amount of indignities and forced her to participate in his war on _everything,_ pulling at her strings whenever he felt like it because, to him, she was nothing but a puppet that existed for his enjoyment alone and what uses he could find for her when she wasn’t serving as his _entertainment_.

He had delighted in her helplessness and in the knowledge that it didn’t matter how hard she may scream and wail and curse and growl inside her own mind, her will was not her own and never would be so long as he chose. She had been unable to do anything about her circumstances and he’d enjoyed that to the fullest. 

_He cannot hurt you anymore unless you let him._ The reminder pulled her away from the rage that had begun to build inside her again, and she was able to get back to answering Proudmoore’s question. “I cannot taste anything at all. It is not even as if it were ash, there is simply _nothing._ It is the same with drinks. Although I can feel the liquid, there is no flavour that comes with it. Nothing at all.”

Proudmoore paled at that, her already pale-green colour becoming even more so and making her look sickly. “What about—what about the rest of your senses? Did he…” 

“Not in the way you’re thinking of.” Sylvanas gave into the tiredness that she felt for a split second and released a tiny sigh, her expression faltering for the briefest of moments before she composed herself again. “My eyesight and hearing have been muted some, as is normal for our kind, but they are still rather exceptional.” They were, in fact, a fair order of magnitudes above even living humans. In life she had been especially gifted in that her bloodline possessed remarkably sharp senses, even for Elves, which made them particularly suited to life in the military. When coupled with the rigorous training required of Rangers, well. It was not fair to others to be compared to Windrunner House. “My sense of smell is the same, but he didn’t mess with those since he wanted to use me as a general for his armies. Should I have regained my body while still under his grip, it would have been _inconvenient_ for him were I to not be able to _perform_ to his expectations, so he did not really touch those.” 

She gritted her teeth again, her lips pursing deeply as a little of her temper escaped the tight reins of her control in spite of her best efforts to contain it. “Normally, my sense of touch is…average for Forsaken, I suppose. Relatively dimmed, except in one instance.”

Thankfully, Proudmoore did not need for her to say it herself. “He made it so that you would feel immense pain, didn’t he? Whenever it would be expected for you to feel it?” 

“…Good guess. I will always heal slower from wounds than I normally should, and if I am injured, no matter how small it may be, it feels far more intensely than when I was alive.”

That had been an immense problem before her Val’kyr had joined her. The handicap that had been placed on her had been basically nullified thanks to their healing magic, but before then she had suffered hellishly whenever she received so much as a small cut in battle. That had obviously been his aim, yet she had never given him the satisfaction of so much as hissing in pain whenever she was injured, no matter how much it may have bloody _hurt_ , out of nothing but sheer spite. 

Now it still hurt like hellfire whenever she was wounded, but the pain and the healing process were respectively soothed and accelerated by whichever Val’kyr was with her at the moment, usually Sigrid. It was therefore bearable, if still inconvenient.

Noticing that Proudmoore’s eyes had drifted to where there were still traces of ichor left on her skin, and she had a look of distress on her face again, Sylvanas chose to ease a bit of the tension with some teasing. “My eyes are up here, Lady Proudmoore.”

Her quip was ignored, but at least the woman no longer looked as though someone had stolen her puppy. “Is there anything that can be done?”

Sylvanas shrugged resignedly, her eyebrow going up as Proudmoore glared at her in response to the gesture. “If there is, I do not know of it. It is a curse that was placed on me, and only me, out of pettiness and spite for all the ‘trouble’ I gave him as he destroyed my homeland.” Her voice softened and her expression gentled at her next thought. “At the very least, I was the only one to be made to bear this. I am grateful that he didn’t go after my Rangers once he was done with me.”

If the godless bastard had _actually_ cursed her Rangers the way he had cursed her, Fordring be _damned_ , she would have stormed into Icecrown Citadel along with the Champions and murdered him with her bare hands. It was bad enough that he had made them into Banshees as well, tortured them as well, though thankfully to a lesser extent than he had tortured her. Since he cared for nothing and no one but himself, it hadn’t occurred to him that another way to make her suffer would have been to go after her brave Rangers, who most certainly had endured more than enough as it was. _Thank the Goddess for small mercies._

“It’s not exactly as though it was an ordinary curse, so conventional methods of breaking it will not work. Most magic cannot stand up to the might of that damnable blade, and whatever counter-curses or enchantment breakers are generally used for this type of thing have not yielded any results.” Sylvanas continued, speaking clinically and evenly. No point in being upset over something that she could not change, after all, especially now that it was a nuisance rather than the genuine inconvenience it had been before. “It is simply what it is, and I have learned to live with that. It means I have to be more careful in battle, to be more attentive and think even further ahead than I had to before. In a sense, it has allowed me to hone my instincts even further, so it has been good for something at the very least.”

 _“There is always a lesson to be learned in even the most dire of circumstances and the most crushing of failures,”_ had been something her mother had impressed upon her when she’d still been very young and play-fighting with Alleria rather than training seriously for her future role as a Ranger. She’d been a child then, but both Lireesa and Dath’Nadar Windrunner had believed in the importance of imparting as many life lessons as they could onto their daughters as early as possible. Learning from failures and taking what positive could be had from every situation was one such lesson that they’d made sure to drill into them until it was so deeply ingrained that they could repeat it in their sleep. Like most of the advice her parents had given to them, it was good and solid and had served to make the foundations that had made Sylvanas the person she had been. 

“It is not something you should trouble yourself over, Lady Proudmoore. You should instead concentrate on taking the time to learn what you can about your new existence and trying to regain mastery over your magic. Those are more pressing concerns than a curse that has nothing to do with you and does not affect you personally. Rather, do you have any other questions for me?”

When Proudmoore remained silent, without even a hum or a nod of acknowledgement, Sylvanas trained her gaze back on the woman and noticed that she had apparently lost herself in her thoughts again. With how often it was happening, she wondered if she should cut their information session short, but the Lord Admiral did not appear to be quite tired enough for that yet…And if she knew anything about Jaina Proudmoore it was that she was annoyingly _stubborn_ and would likely argue with Sylvanas until she was literally blue in the face were she to propose they continue this later.

Well, then. Raising her voice and making it a little more pointed, she addressed Proudmoore again directly. “You are not listening, are you?”

The Lich jumped a little, blinking rapidly as she met Sylvanas’ gaze with her own. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“I was asking if you had any further questions for me before noticing you had gone off into your own little world,” Sylvanas said evenly, her face perfectly impassible, though from the guilty look of ‘was caught with her hand in the cookie jar’ Proudmoore had, she was sure that some of the amusement she felt was showing somehow. 

Blue eyes gazed at her with an intensity that made her blink in surprise, only for that surprise to become concern when Proudmoore’s expression went from guilt to curiosity to something that she was not sure she could identify, and then to downright sadness. Not for the first time, she wondered what on Azeroth the woman was thinking of now.

She also couldn’t help but wonder if she was always so very expressive, wearing her emotions on her sleeve, or if it was an effect of being newly Awakened and not having a full grasp over herself quite yet. Not that Sylvanas particularly minded, but if it was her natural state of being, they would need to work on getting her a proper poker face going or else diplomatic relations would be literally out of the question for her.

Before Sylvanas could ask what was wrong, Proudmoore composed herself and chose to speak. “Right. You were explaining the differences between first-generation and second-generation Forsaken.”

Well, she was entitled to her private thoughts, and it wasn’t her place to pry either way. If Proudmoore wanted her to know something, she’d speak up. Hopefully. “Ah, yes. The differences are not noticeable at a glance. As a general rule, you won’t be able to spot someone and be able to classify them based on visual cues alone. Physical decay is somewhat more pronounced in the first generation, as I’ve already explained, and you’ll find a lot more variety in terms of mutedness when it comes to sensations. Some cannot taste anything, smell very little, and they don’t feel things when they touch them.”

“Is that normal for the first generation?”

“Somewhat. It is mostly due to the state they were in when they were brought back. Most will retain a semblance of their senses, but the degree to which they can see, feel, hear, taste, and so on is generally far more muted than those that were Raised by me or my Val’kyr. They are some of the most hardworking of my people, and some of the first to volunteer for the most dangerous of missions as well.” 

“Of course,” Proudmoore murmured softly, her eyes softening and a sense of understanding shining in them that gave the Warchief pause. “Is there anything else that, uh, makes us distinct?”

Sylvanas fell silent at that, her mind coming up with so very many answers to that question that she was unsure which one would be the best to give. 

There were many reasons why first-generation and second-generation Forsaken were seen as distinct. Not only had the second generation been born at a time in which the Forsaken had been firmly established as a people, with a capital city and a culture that was ready to welcome them, thus granting them better footing and made it much easier for them to find a renewed sense of purpose in their undeath, they had also never had to suffer through the yoke of the Lich King’s iron fist around their necks. 

Those that had joined the ranks of her people through her own hand or that of her Val’kyr had never had their free wills infringed upon. They had lived their lives as they chose until they met their end, and after that they had accepted undeath of their own volition as well, so they did not carry with them the burden of having been made to turn against their own friends and families, of being made to betray everything they had held dear and _delight_ in it the way all that had been made Scourge first had been forced to do. Not that Sylvanas would wish that upon anyone, but it was certainly something that caused major differences in the first of her people and those that had come after. 

Then there was the difference between the Curse and the Gift. They who had been Raised by Frostmourne’s power had been _cursed_ with undeath. They were tormented endlessly from the moment they had been brought back and would continue to endure it until the moment they met True Death, their bodies twisted and their spirits being embedded with a corruption that gnawed at them from within and that they had to fight against constantly. As far as Sylvanas had been able to understand it, the foul magics of the runeblade were the cause for it rather than the petty manchild himself, as otherwise the twist of something unspeakable within her would have vanished with his demise. It was a taint that all of them had to endure and struggle against every moment of every day, and those that couldn’t handle it succumbed to the mindless savagery that the Alliance was so fond of painting them all with.

On the other hand, those Forsaken who had been Raised by her Val’kyr were not touched by this taint, and their existences were much more peaceful, if such a thing was possible for their race. There was a lightness that existed within them that was unachievable for those who were former members of the Scourge, and it was because of this that it was called the Gift instead. A chance to continue their work from before they met their demise at the end of a sword or axe or magic bolt. A chance to continue defending what they held precious. A chance to keep going, death itself be damned, with their heads held high and their spirits unbowed and unbroken. It was most obvious in that their selves were more _intact,_ as it were, and they still found joy in things that had long since been lost to the first-generation. 

But the single most important distinction between the two was a side-effect of not being afflicted by the curse, and she supposed that it would be reassuring for Proudmoore to know of that first and foremost.

“Perhaps the most important thing to note is that none of you are barred from the afterlife.”

Much like when she had first informed her that it would be possible for her to still partake and enjoy food, Proudmoore looked at her as though she had suddenly sprouted extra heads. “I—what? The afterlife?”

Well, this was interesting. Given how often the Alliance loved to shout from the mountaintops that Forsaken were evil, doomed creatures that had turned their backs on the Light and other such nonsense, she would have imagined that this would be relatively common knowledge for them. Clearly not, however, and she had to bite back an exasperated sigh as she began to explain. “Do you remember earlier, when you asked me about my awakening?”

“Yes.”

“I was not being dramatic or exaggerating when I said that I was brought back into an unlife of eternal torment,” Sylvanas’ said flatly, averting her gaze and looking out the window even as her gauntlets dug into her jerkin deeply and left gouges in the leather. This…it was something that still hurt and would forever hurt, because she was intimately aware that it was what awaited her at the end of the road regardless of what she did. It was not something that she could ignore. “Frostmourne’s curse ran deep, and from what I know…all of us who were Raised by it will never be able to reunite with our ancestors or loved ones in the Lands Beyond, whether that is the Realm of the Honoured Dead, Belore’s Hunting Fields, the Light’s Domain or whatever else. Not even the Shadowlands are to receive us. When we die, we will instead go into a black void where there is nothing but the whispers of our own regrets. It is a realm of anguish, where there is only hopelessness and terror, and where our greatest mistakes and failures will be forever paraded in front of us.”

There would never be peace for any of them. Just as they had suffered in life and in undeath, so they would continue suffering once they were to meet their final end. It was the cruelest curse of all, and perfectly in line with the sadistic brand of ‘entertainment’ that _he_ had enjoyed while he’d still been around.

Proudmoore looked sickened again. “That is to be the fate of all Forsaken?”

“The fate of all that were touched by that thrice-damned runeblade, yes. As I said, yours will be different.”

“How do you know that?”

There was nothing particularly accusatory in the way that she phrased it, but the doubt and fear and _revulsion_ she could see in Proudmoore’s face made something in Sylvanas snap.

Her eyes blazed an unholy crimson as they fixated on Proudmoore’s and her voice became a low, dangerous _hiss_ that dripped with venom on every word she spoke. “Because I am _not_ him. I swore I would _never_ be like him, and I have done my utmost to keep to the oath I took on the day I broke free from his hold.”

She was rapidly losing control over her temper, her body trembling with the depths of her fury. “Despite what the Alliance may have told you, Lady Proudmoore, I do _not_ Raise people against their will or curse them into a miserable existence for my own twisted pleasure. My Val’kyr know which souls are willing to continue fighting, which regret having fallen in battle, and which wish to pass on to the beyond. They only bring back those that are willing to serve again and wish to have a second chance.”

Just how irresponsible did this woman think her, that she would ask how Sylvanas could be sure that she was not condemning others to join her in the same miserable state that she was in every day of her existence? 

Did she really believe that Sylvanas was that selfish? 

Did she really believe her that _monstrous?_

She hadn’t imagined that her opinion of the Alliance could fall even lower, and yet they continuously managed to dig their way underneath where the bar had been set.

“After everything _he_ put me through, what he put _my people_ through, do you think I would _ever_ do the same to others? Bend them to my will, make puppets of them and force them to slaughter their friends and family on a whim of mine? Parading them as sick trophies while I laugh maniacally and use them as a fear tactic to get their living loved ones and others who would know of them to surrender to me?”

She was vaguely aware that wisps of black smoke were now rising from her body, her anger being such that her control over her Banshee self was all but gone. “Everyone who serves me is here because they wish to be. I _have never_ and _will never_ rob them of their freedom the way I was stripped of mine, the way _all_ of them were before I broke my chains and helped them break theirs. I do not claim to have never done wrong in my life, but I do not _enslave_ people.”

If the day ever came where Sylvanas behaved like the bastard males that had ruined her life over and over, she hoped her Rangers would throw her off into a pit of Saronite spikes themselves. She would rather spend the rest of eternity in that blasted Realm of Anguish than be _anything_ like Arthas or Garrosh. She did _not_ enslave people. She did _not_ deprive them of their ability to make whatever choices they wished, because free will was absolutely sacred to her. 

She also most certainly _did not **curse**_ people into suffering the way she and those she had helped free had to. She would never claim she was a ‘good’ person, whatever that even meant, but she was also not repulsive and unforgiveable like that, and the implication of Proudmoore’s question had a Wail just begging to be released from how utterly _furious_ she was at being compared to the worst people that Azeroth had ever seen walk its grounds.

Her violent response had Proudmoore silently staring at her with pure shock before her expression changed and became chagrined. “I…I meant ‘how can you be sure that they— _we_ —will be able to go into the proper afterlife?’ I was not questioning your character, Sylvanas.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, obviously trying for a soothing and reassuring tone as she realized that she needed to tread lightly. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were—that you _are_ like him. I see why you thought I did, and I’m sorry. I could have phrased that better.”

The sincerity with which those words were spoken managed to pierce through the fog of her anger, and the earnest way Proudmoore looked at her, as though she were truly sorry for what she had inadvertently implied, managed to slowly begin restoring some of her calm. Her Banshee self still growled, but it returned within instead of thrashing and trying to escape, while her body stopped its trembling. Her muscles gradually began to uncoil themselves from where they had tightened like a bow’s string ready to fire, rationality returning to her and allowing her to see that she had misinterpreted the young Lich’s question.

“I-I understand. It’s not…” Sylvanas gave up and plain sighed, feeling more tired than she could recall being in a very long time. “It’s also my fault. Yes, perhaps you could have phrased your question better, but I also misinterpreted the meaning of it, and for that I am sorry.”

 _She is young and not entirely herself. She is young and not entirely herself. She is newly-awakened, barely hours old and still tripping over her words. She continuously loses herself in her own thoughts and has lost the thread of conversation at least twice already. She needs_ time.

The reminder of that managed to siphon the last of her anger away and left only weariness in its wake. “It is only your first day, it’s normal to not be quite yourself just yet,” 

Sylvanas leaned against the wall and allowed the cool stone to bear the weight of her everything for a short moment, needing that tiny bit of reprieve, before straightening again and addressing her guest’s query. “To answer your actual question, then, my Val’kyr are able to sense that sort of thing. Many times they have escorted the fallen to the Lands Beyond and seen them be reunited with their loved ones there. They are a part of me, so I know for certain that you whom have been Raised by their power, will be able to gain entry to the afterlife without trouble.”

It brought her a small measure of comfort to know that not all of her people were destined for the same hopeless fate as she was, as so many of them were. She could be glad for them, that they, at least, would be allowed a reunion with those they had cherished in life after their work was done. Her final rest would never come, and she would not wish that on any but the vilest of her enemies. It was thus a relief to have actively _felt_ the happiness of those that had been admitted into the realm of their ancestors once they had passed on for the last time. 

That was enough for her.

“It’s because of Frostmourne’s curse, then, that you cannot go there?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes. That is the reason why.”

Proudmoore looked as though she was gearing up to say more on the subject but she stopped speaking abruptly and she began to sway lightly back and forth. Before Sylvanas could do or say something, the Lich lost her battle against gravity and fell back against her bed, landing with a soft thud and a tiny moan as her nose once again buried itself on her pillow.

Seeing this, Sylvanas stifled a chuckle and pushed herself off the wall. “You should rest, Lady Proudmoore. Today has been long and tiring as is, and you need to recover your strength after what happened earlier.”

“I don’t feel sleepy, though,” Proudmoore protested petulantly after turning to look at her again, much like a child having a favourite toy being taken away and being told that it was nighttime and they should sleep.

Amused by this very undignified behaviour from the ruler of an entire island-nation, Sylvanas simply shook her head lightly. “So very stubborn. You will never again feel sleepy, but you will be able to fall asleep if you actively try to do so.”

“Oh. Is that how it works?” Proudmoore blinked up at her curiously, and it was taking more effort than she’d anticipated not to laugh at this apparent and sudden mental age regression.

“That is, indeed, how it works.” The small glare she received in return for her statement made her want to smirk as a response, but that would likely only spark an argument and Proudmoore really did need rest.

She did release a small chuckle, though, and approached the Lord Admiral’s side nimbly, her footsteps completely imperceptible, before placing a hand on the Lich’s shoulder. “Rest, Lady Proudmoore. And do not worry if you feel disoriented or don’t recall parts of this conversation when you wake. It is quite normal for young Forsaken to have trouble making too much sense of things during their first few weeks. Gaps in recollection and keeping things straight in your mind may be a bit of a challenge for a while.”

She waited until Proudmoore nodded her agreement to stop fighting her need for rest and pulled the bedcovers over the woman’s body, trying not to disturb her as she went. There was no warmth that would accompany it since Forsaken did not produce body heat like the living races did, but the weight of the duvet on her body would likely be reassuring.

It was also still highly amusing for her to see that her guest’s nose was once again fully buried in her pillow. Given how fond Proudmoore had become of the artifact so quickly, she would likely need to give her one of her own, lest she find herself down one pillow next time she returned to her bed.

Biting back another chuckle, she wished the Lord Admiral a good sleep before exiting her bedchambers and making her way to her study, where a pile of reports undoubtedly awaited on her desk, thinking back on the events that had just transpired.

She fully expected having to repeat at least some of the conversation she’d had with the Lich and likely a need to elaborate on the basics on being Forsaken within the next few days. It was normal and only to be expected, though she hoped the transition period would not be too long for Proudmoore, for everyone’s sake. Whatever else may be said about her she was doing quite well for only her first day, and questions that had touched on very delicate subjects and one misunderstanding aside, this first encounter had actually gone much better than she’d expected for it to go.

At the very least she’d verified that there was nothing wrong with the _power_ of Proudmoore’s magic, the Archmage hadn’t actively tried to kill her, and she now had a better idea of how exactly to deal with the woman. It was obvious that she thrived on information, as was expected given her scholarly reputation, and had responded well to honesty and the overtures of kindness that Sylvanas had offered, which suited Sylvanas just fine since she was not one to indulge in mindless cruelty for its own sake. 

She had not earned her people’s love and respect through random and pointless maliciousness, and she was not likely to start anytime soon.

Leadership was based on _trust_. Trust that people had placed on her to see to them, to guide them and ensure their well-being, safety, and happiness. It was a trust that had to be earned and could only be achieved through proof of service, because that was the reality of a leader: a true leader was a servant of their people. It was a position that required the ability to care more for others than for the self, the wisdom to find the best outcomes for all and make those into a reality, the strength to make hard decisions even if they weren’t the prettiest ones or the ones that would leave one shining, and an understanding that their duty, not the power that came with the position, was what was most important thing to keep in mind. 

Her people respected her and followed her willingly because she had earned that trust by proving to them that she cared. She had carved out a place for them in a world that would attempt to destroy them for the simple sin of existing, and she had continued to fight for all of them until they had a place they could call home and people they could call allies. She valued each and every one of them, and they knew that they were more than mere arrows in her quiver, easily expendable and replaceable after their use was through. She had proven that she would not willingly sacrifice them for no reason at all, and that she would be there, in the frontlines, fighting alongside them when she gave the order for their armies to move out against whatever enemy threatened to annihilate them this time. 

Above all, she had given them what most had tried to deprive them of: freedom and choice.

She hoped that Jaina Proudmoore would come to see that about her soon enough. It would remain to be seen what she would do now and Sylvanas would be keeping an eye on her for the next few weeks until the woman was more comfortable with herself, but if Proudmoore was actually able to let go of the prejudices and biases that had led her to almost killing them both when she’d first seen herself in the mirror…if she actually came to fully accept who and what she was now, then maybe this had all been worth it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, a lot of things surprised me about this chapter. Lireesa showing up out of nowhere to calm Sylvanas down while she was spiralling is the most prominent of those, as it was absolutely _not_ in any plans for her to make an appearance or be mentioned so soon. The intensity of Sylvanas' reactions to some things was also rather surprising, and overall it's been a very interesting journey into the mind of our favourite Warchief.
> 
> For anyone who cares about this stuff, Dath'Nadar Windrunner is indeed the name I gave Sylvanas' father, though to me he was originally Dath'Nadar _Dawnseeker_ and he joined Windrunner House when he fell in love with and married Ranger-General Lireesa. He was a Commander of the Royal Guard, protecting Anasterian Sunstrider himself, and died saving the life of his King in a Troll ambush. 
> 
> Where Alleria and Lirath are basically spitting images of Lireesa, with their sun-gold hair and deep blue eyes, Sylvanas and Vereesa got a bit more of their father. His hair and eyes were silver, and he was the better baker between he and Lireesa, but her cooking abilities surpassed his since she had a lot more experience making do with limited supplies than he did, given all of her time out in the field. They were a happy, healthy, and loving couple, and they tried to raise their children as best they could. Their advice was sage and obtained from long, long years both in and out of the battlefield, and as we can see here, Sylvanas still appreciates it to this day.
> 
> Will they make further appearances in future stories? I honestly don't know. As I mentioned, I really hadn't expected Lireesa to show up out of nowhere to get Sylvanas to pull herself together, and the tidbit on the elder Windrunners teaching their children about taking lessons from even the worst of failures was unexpected as well, so I suppose we'll see.
> 
> Next up, the Horde leaders find out about Jaina's induction into the Forsaken's ranks and demand some answers on what exactly that means for them and their attempted ceasefire with the Alliance leaders. It's not going to be pretty but hey, at least it can't be as bad as dealing with the Alliance itself...right?


End file.
